


who cares wins

by josiebelladonna



Series: now it's dark [2]
Category: Anthrax (US Band), Bandom, Metallica, Soundgarden (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Cyberpunk, Dark Comedy, Dark Magic, Erotica, F/M, Film Noir, Journalism, Multi, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Steampunk, Strippers & Strip Clubs, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 83,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/josiebelladonna
Summary: ***book twoThe sequel to now it's dark, where Joey and Lars find some rather interesting, and disturbing, things about Maya. Meanwhile, in the backdrop, the high tech life in Seattle is reaching a peak, but will it last?
Relationships: Chris Cornell/Original Female Character, Joey Belladonna/Original Female Character, Matt Cameron/Original Female Character(s)
Series: now it's dark [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519889
Kudos: 1





	1. ("welcome to no pants island")

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Instagram where I post my darling cartoons—my Joey and Anthrax ones are crazy hot right now, so come check me out! badmotorartist 💜😘  
> If I post fic updates, they'll be in Stories because... y'know. Rule of fandom and whatnot ;) xoxo #nowitsdark #thejoeygirls
> 
> *upstate new york accent* previously on now it's dark:  
> -a whole lotta girls, namely marcia and gwendolyn, who want joey, but there's lupe  
> dominique probably has his eye but then there's lupe  
> -seattle is a thousand years ahead of everyone  
> -death is cryptic and ghosts are real  
> -joey is always hungry, randy, pensive, or some combination of the three  
> -lars is in new york because his marriage is on the rocks because he's obsessed with finding out what happened to maya, about as much as joey  
> -oh, and the big one: maya and brick may or not may not be suffering from the same thing and joey vowed to find out even if it kills him

November 18, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
“God, it's dark in here.” The second floor of Black Orchid has no lights switched on, and yet it feels quite warm in here. But I'm trusting her on where she's taking me.  
It's been almost two weeks since I last saw Lupe at Black Orchid, and even after then I managed to see her around town. It had always been a fleeting glimpse on my part but she was always within my presence. I know she's only a stripper and I'm not looking for anything given I'm trying to take care of myself, but she does it better than Gwendolyn. I don't know, I think it's the fact she's always been so dialed back towards me whereas Gwen's always wanted to behold her pussy to me on a silver platter. Lupe has that lovely black hair that reminds me of my own, that little face with the big brown eyes which also remind me of my own, and she's got that little laugh that sounds like two wine glasses clinking together. She reminds me of myself, and those big hoop earrings hanging off of her ears and all of her jewelry only add to it.  
I have met up with her at Black Orchid on this particular evening, the week after Veteran's Day and the weekend before Thanksgiving. I've always been kind of reticent on the topic of Thanksgiving because of the whole thing with the Indians and whatnot, then again I've always been rather standoffish on the topic of my heritage but it's times like this the almost three centuries worth of agony creeps up inside of me. I go to the supermarket and I see all of those turkeys on display and I can't help but feel with those birds. I return home and I can't help but think of Brick back at the House of Grey. Even if Thanksgiving wasn't such a weird subject for me, I'm not really in the mood to consider anything for the next week aside from traveling down to Camillus to visit my parents and then over to Buffalo to my aunt and uncle's house.  
I'm not really in the mood to think about Maya too much, either.  
The one thing I'll say about her is I hope with all sincerity that she's alright back in Seattle and that she transformed away from that dragon monster thing. I mean it when I say I'll figure out what's up with her and Brick even if it kills me. I've got nothing else going on, anyway.  
Well, that's not quite right.  
The past week, I've managed to sit down on the couch in my apartment with that pad of paper I nicked from Kim's apartment and scribble down some thoughts.  
I didn't hold anything back. I just unleashed everything onto paper with nothing more than a pen.  
I managed to write something that resembled somewhat to lyrics. I don't know if they are—usually when I think of lyrics, I think of poetry. I think of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan, and I think of James Hetfield and of course Scott. I'm a far cry from a lyricist. But at one point, I had filled out the notepad with words, all pages front and back with lyrics, all of them for songs. Should I give these to someone like what Anthrax did for me?  
No. These are my own. These are from the inside of me. These are my thoughts, my heart, my soul, my body, my sexuality, every single thing that I’m feeling, everything that says Joey Belladonna written down in prose form.  
These are Joey Belladonna by himself songs. This is me. This is every inch of me written down. I need to bring them to life. I counted thirty-three here so I’m good for an album or two, or maybe more in fact; the other good part of this is I can probably play drums again.  
But I have said plenty for now. I am with Lupe for the evening. She’s taking me to the second floor of the strip joint for some time alone together. I took the bus over here from my place and passed the gutter where I had found Maya, only to find a massive heap of snow there. I had a fleeting thought upon walking by that Death had left that pile of snow there as a reminder. But it didn’t last very long so I couldn’t fully analyze it. I came to the front step of Black Orchid and was greeted by Lupe herself before I even knocked on the door panel. It was as if she knew I was coming.  
She’s wearing those big hoop earrings that I like, as well as a little bright blue low cut blouse that hugs her body and rides up her waist with every step towards the stage there beneath the loft; add to this she’s got on those low riding jeans that are little bit baggy so she’s showing me a bit of flesh between her waist and the top of her crotch, and she’s wearing the right amount of spicy perfume.  
I feel her hand resting upon my arm, and then I hear a tapping on the top of the table in front of me. I grope around for the edge of the chair: once I find it, I tug it back in order to take a seat. I nestle down in the chair with the lapels of my leather jacket pulled up to my face.  
“Are you cold?” she asks me, which surprises me given I can’t see anything here. Maybe she can hear my jacket rustling.  
“I got a little chill,” I admit to her.  
“I’m gonna make it warm up in here,” she vows, touching the tip of my nose with two fingers. I hear her step away from me in those three inch come-fuck-me stilettos towards the stage. There’s a pause.  
Then the lights surrounding the stage flick on and bathe the stage and the pole in rich golden light. Lupe steps onto the stage, still in the blouse and the stilettos, but she took off her jeans and is showing off royal blue fishnets over black silk panties and a black leather belt embedded with silver stones around her waist. She had slipped on black leather gloves extending to her elbows, and I see she has a smudge of body glitter under her belly button. She gives her black hair a toss back to where most of it is over her shoulder, and then she flashes me a seductive look.  
I raise my eyebrows at her cocking her hip out at me. I feel my own cock raising his head at the sight of her.  
“Come on, big boy—” she tells me in a husky voice. She grips onto the pole and shows me her tongue. I watch her sashay, stick out her ass and sway her hips, show me her belly button and the inside of her thighs and the crotch of her panties. I can tell she shaved.  
The fishnets barely contain her olive skin while the shirt just keeps riding further up her body until it’s underneath her tits. It takes me a minute to realize the fishnets have little twinkling neon lights embedded in the threads.  
That’s when she strips off the blouse to show me her little black lace bra with a pair of cups with those frilly designs just covering up her nipples. She’s got glitter sprinkled in between her breasts.  
“So what do you think, sugar baby?” she asks me, touching the spot on her breast that’s the site of her nipple.  
“Yeah, baby doll,” I confess as the waist of my jeans are tightening. “Yeah!”  
She parades down the stage and towards me. She rests one knee atop my thigh and leans in closer to my face. Her fingers comb through my hair on the side of my head to keep it out of my face. She leans in closer to my neck as if she’s about to kiss me but she hesitates right before my jawline.  
“I’ll give ya a little spankin’ while I’m at it, big boy,” she breathes into my ear.  
“Not if I do it to ya first,” I retort in a hushed voice. She has her chest right in front of my face: I’m about two inches from her nipple and the one thing separating me from it is that little bit of lace. She smells so good it’s driving me insane.  
She pushes up against me but then she pulls back real quick. She opens my jacket so my chest is exposed.  
“You gonna--” I choke out, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “You gonna--?”  
She runs her fingers down my chest and I writhe in the chair underneath her. I try to relax but she’s going all the way down to my waist. She presses her tits up against my chest. My jeans are so tight.  
She rolls over onto me and before she can take a seat on me, I raise my hand and give her a little slap. She gasps at that and sits down on my lap. She grinds her hips right over the crotch of my jeans. I’m getting hard.  
“My pants are so tight,” I plead to her with a gasp.  
“Welcome to no pants island, baby boy,” she whispers to me. “I’m about ready to come--” Meanwhile, I’m breathing heavier with every grind. Then she shakes her ass right over my lap. I’m about to totally lose it now.  
She turns over again and this time slides down my legs to unbutton my jeans. She tugs down my underwear and takes out my dick. She puts her lips around the head and blows me. I tilt my head back over the top of the chair as she’s going deep. I’m all the way inside of her mouth and then she moves out again. Lupe’s sucking on me so hard and so deep that I come inside of her. She swallows.  
Well, shit.  
Lupe takes her mouth off of me and from the afterglow of the stage lights, I can see the glimmer in her eyes. She wants it. She wants it from me.  
“You wanna--” My voice breaks. “You wanna head upstairs and--?”  
“Please,” she pleads to me.  
“Okay, let me just--” I gaze into her face. She wants it so bad, and so do I. “Eh, fuck it, let’s just go upstairs and do it. I’m gonna take my pants off anyways.”


	2. (feel like makin' love...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If I had those golden dreams  
> of my yesterdays.  
> I would wrap you in the heaven  
> 'til I'm dyin' on the way.”  
> -”Feel Like Makin’ Love”, Bad Company

I've got my dick pretty much hanging out of the front of my jeans as Lupe's leading me upstairs to the loft. I'm holding onto myself as we're running up towards one of the beds there. She removes her bra before we reach the top of the stairs and, once we're at the top, she kicks off her stilettos and lunges toward the bed on the left, the one I've been sleeping in. She rolls over onto her back so her tits are pointed up out at me. I peel off my jeans and my underwear and climb onto the bed like the animal I am. Once she strips off the fishnets, she spreads her legs and raises her knees so I'm faced with the crotch of her panties.  
I loom over her crotch with my teeth barred. I lower my head onto the band of her panties, right below her belt, and hold onto them with my teeth. I pull back her panties so as to expose her creamy smooth opaque skin. Using my fingers, I pull them off all the way so she's not wearing anything on the bottom. In the afterglow, I can see the lips of her pussy are a little pink but not too much. She's spread for me much like a full grown orchid, a dainty little flower on display in the garden that is my spare bed.  
But I need to make like a gardener and water this lovely little orchid and bring in that lush rosy pink color before I go any further.  
I hold onto her knee with one hand and use my index and middle fingers on the other hand to slip inside of those lips. She gasps and lets out a quiet groan as I caress those lips as gently as I can. Lupe gasps with each and every touch and stroke of my fingers on the outside and within. I slip my index finger on the inside and I feel the delicate skin moistening and loosening. Somewhere in there is that little spot.  
She gasps even louder when I turn my hand over so my palm is facing up and stroke on the inside of her. There it is.  
“You're going to have to do better than that, big boy,” she grunts out at me, showing me her parted lips and a soft blush crossing her face.  
“Alright then, honey pie—”  
I've always been on the fence about the thought of eating out but she wants it. I take out my fingers and place my hand underneath her butt so as to steady myself. I'm gentle to keep my hand on her other knee; I lean forward to her crotch with my tongue hanging out over my bottom lip. Careful not to hurt her, I lick my lips and lay my tongue on hers. I lick very slowly, a movement which coaxes a soft moan from her. I lick her again, and she closes her mouth and gives me a groan from the inside of her throat.  
I close my eyes as I go in deeper. I'm feeling the inside of her. I'm tasting it. I'm drinking from the cup while giving her a refill. Like a gardener, I'm nourishing the soft flesh that surrounds me.  
Lupe parts the lips on her mouth for another soft moan. She raises her hips, much to my surprise. But now I know what she's doing. I lift my head to see her nipples fully pointed; I glance down at the lips of her pussy, now a deep shade of pink. This orchid's ready.  
I lift myself into an upright position to find my dick is pointing out like it should, nice and hard and as pink as that pussy.  
I hoist up her legs so I'm right there right before her. I'm moving my hips forward and slowly going in headfirst.  
I move faster with each thrust.  
I'm free wheelin'. I'm wheelin' and dealin'.  
I'm a bad boy and I need a spanking because I'm shoving my man bologna into her little black orchid.  
Nah, fuck that. I'm just a bad boy. I'm fucking this girl because it'll please her as much as it'll please me.  
She's breathing harder. She's rolling her head from side to side. But she's so good, letting me water her like this. I am the damn Injun after all: wherever I lay my head on earth is my home.  
I thrust in extra quick and firm and that brings out a shriek from her. I pull out because I know we're both coming. I let go of her legs with the kind of screech I'd use while I'm singing; I'm dribbling onto the bed right before her.  
I strip off my shirt so now we're both naked. My dick is as wet as her pussy but I don't think either of us mind at all, especially since I'm still erect.  
I lay down next to Lupe on my side right there on the bed with my hard on still resting in between my thighs. She rolls her head over the pillow with her lips parted and a tendril of black hair strewn over her cheek, right under her eye.  
“Oh, that was everything I imagined it to be,” she whispers to me, out of breath. “Raw and pulling out.”  
“You know, I'm still pretty big right now,” I point out to her in a broken voice. “You sure you wanna stop? 'Cause I can tell you want some water.” She drops her gaze to my thighs. Her tongue slithers out of her mouth and runs over her bottom lip. She has a twinkle in her eye. I've got the butterflies in my stomach again.  
“Roll over,” she orders me in a breathy voice. “Roll over and let Mama bring the water.”  
I'm still as firm as a rock but I roll over onto my back with my legs spread for her. She climbs upon my hips and squats down on top of me. Starting slow, she gyrates her hips to and fro. She stares into my face, those dark eyes burning into my own; meanwhile, her hoop earrings flying about like wings. She rests her hands on my stomach for the lightest of caresses, a feeling that sends chills up my spine. As if I can't erect anymore, my pounding heart fills out my dick with even more blood.  
I'm breathing so hard that it feels as though I had been running a mile.  
“Fuck—” is all that can emerge from my lips. I'm a mess. I can't think straight. All I can think about is how I'm about ready to come again. She bursts out laughing which is then followed by a loud shriek. I follow it up with another ear splitting screech, one that sounds like one of the screams I did on “Raise Hell”, one that so loud that I think I'm about to wake the dead.  
“FUCK!” she shouts.  
“LUPE!” I yell.  
“JOEY!” she shouts. She falls to the side right as I come again. Our chests heaving in unison, we're laying next to one another, naked and very warm even in the cold room. I roll my head over for a better look at her jet black hair spread out from her head. She takes out her earrings before rolling back onto her side to hold me.  
She's got her mouth right next to my ear so I can better hear her shuddered breaths. Her hand strokes over my chest down onto my stomach.  
“Okay,” I groan out, my voice hoarse and every inch of my body weak. “Yeah, you are definitely the best.”  
“I didn't know you saw me as the best,” she whispers into my ear. “God damn, you scream loud.”  
“That's what I do, baby doll. I give my voice to the world.” I lick my lips: I'm thirsty on a literal level now.  
“You know—you wanna know something?” I lower my voice to a near whisper.  
“Yes.”  
“I've been thinking of doing some solo music,” I tell her.  
“Really?”  
“Yeah. I've written some songs and I'm gonna sing ‘em.”  
“Who's going to play the music?”  
“I have my ways,” I assure her with a wink.  
“You have your ways,” she chuckles at me.  
“I really do. I'll do all the drum tracks if I have to.”  
“That explains why you like to thump so much.”  
“What're you gonna call it?”  
“I don't really know. Maybe just use my name. You know, when I was with Anthrax, whenever we played our song 'Indians', I wore this big headdress that was bigger than me and I'd run around on stage with my shirt off and shake my ass for everyone. I was like—the Iroquois Indian chief for a day.”  
“Chief Big Meat,” she blurts out, and that gets a laugh out of me.  
“Chief Big Meat, is that what you said?” I chuckle at her.  
“Yeah. You should call your solo music Chief Big Meat.”  
“But then everyone'll wonder what's going on below the belt, though. Less is more, baby doll.”  
“Indeed it is,” she whispers to my face; she leaves a light, gentle kiss on my lips.  
“How 'bout—Big Way?” I suggest once she's looking right into my face.  
“Chief Big Way… I like that. It's like you're going forth—in a big way.”  
“Big way like my dick.”  
She bursts out laughing and buries her head on my chest for a moment before she looks into my face again. She's still got that twinkle in her eye.  
Indeed, she presses her hands on either side of my face for a deeper kiss on the lips. At one point, she sticks her tongue in between my teeth. Even though my erection's gone down, I'm still warm from the feeling. Her hands caress down my chest again, and onto my stomach. I feel her fingers stroking around the rim of my belly button with that light touch again. The feeling coaxes a low groan from the inside of my throat.  
“Someone likes having his belly touched,” she whispers into my mouth. Her fingertips glide over to my hip bone; her touching me there tickles me and makes me breathe hard again. “His hips, too.”  
She runs her fingers down my hip onto my thigh and I'm about to erect again even with this light delicate feeling.  
“So you sing,” she whispers to me.  
“I do.”  
“When you scream like that, it makes your voice all the more sexier. I want to hear you sing. I want to know the voice that I have been making love to.”  
“Keep touching me, and I just might—”  
She slides down my chest onto my stomach. She presses her lips to the little bit of sun kissed skin under my belly button. She's kissing my happy trail, gradually going down from my belly button towards my dick. Before she moves in any closer, I blurt out the words to “Oh, Sherrie” to her. Except this time I replace the name Sherrie with Lupe.  
“—oh, Lupe,” I breathe out as she's pressing her lips to my hip bone: the very caress of her lips is enough to break my voice and drop it down to an aroused gasp. She crawls up towards my face again: wavy strands of her black hair dangle down into my face.  
“I never thought a skinny boy could so sexy and so sensual,” she confesses in a throaty voice. She leans in closer to my lips for another kiss.  
“Let's get under the covers,” she suggests, “it's chilly in here.”  
“You sure? Or are you just happy to see me?”  
She peers down at her nipples, which are still pointed and hard, and she laughs again. She climbs off of me so I can climb under the covers of the bed; there's still some pearls from my shooting my load on the top blanket but neither of us care. She snuggles in next to me and I put my arms around her so we can stay warm, falling asleep on this cold autumnal night.


	3. ("showtime!")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I'd cry enough rain  
> to wash your garden away.  
> But I'm dry as stone,  
> so your trees wash away like veins.  
> But I've been know to  
> take a blow, and I know  
> how fair your garden grows  
> with, fresh deadly roses.”  
> -”Fresh Deadly Roses”, Soundgarden (one of my favorite SG songs, no less)

November 19, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
I'm waking up to the feeling of a warm body next to me. I open my eyes to recognize Lupe's black hair and her soft skin right next to my face. I have my arms wrapped around her tight, and she has her arms around my waist. I feel her naked thigh rubbing up against my own, and I feel the curvature of her hip right underneath my elbow. She's so shapely and soft that it's only helping me embrace my own softness.  
My stomach feels soft and my chest is warm. I don't want to let her go. I want to protect her from the filthy scoundrels around here. Yeah, yeah, she's got her sister but I'll have to protect her, too, if I must.  
I bring the crown of her head closer to my nose to drink up the gentle spicy aroma embedded within the roots of her hair. I have my fingers entwined in the tendrils of hair upon her back. She's got her chest pressed firm against mine: her skin is smooth and delicate like velvet.  
“Mmm—papi—” she whispers to me with barely parted lips.  
“Good morning, my little desert rose,” I whisper back to her.  
She lifts her head for a look at me: her dark eyes are gaping back at me from her pallid skin and from the heart of the waning darkness around us. She parts her lips at me.  
I feel her moving her hand from my body so as to bring it out from underneath the covers and touch my face. For a second, I think she's going to kiss me but she doesn't. Instead she gazes right into my eyes and runs her tongue along the edge of her teeth. It's like she wants a kiss from me instead.  
So I give it to her. A soft one right on the lips. I move my head back from her face for a look into her eyes.  
“Do that again,” she whispers. I give her another one, this one with a bit of my tongue along the inside of her front teeth. I look into her face again.  
“How's that?” I ask her as she rubs her knees up against mine.  
“Softly—” is what I think she says.  
“Hm? Come again?”  
“Softly—touch my nipples—”  
I move my hand from her side to do just that. They're not tight and hard like they were last night at first, but as I'm letting my fingertips touch her in the lightest I possibly can, I can feel them erecting.  
“How's that?” I ask her again, and I get a kiss from her right on the side of my neck. The feel of her lips relaxes my muscles and I'm feeling even softer than before. I close my eyes to surrender to the touch of her lips moving down towards my shoulder and my collar bones.  
“Joey?” Mrs. Hamilton's voice floats up from downstairs. I open my eyes as Lupe's touching my collar bones with the tip of her tongue.  
“Joey? Are you up here?”  
“Mrs. Hamilton—” I call out, my voice breaking. I clear my throat and yet Lupe's still licking my bones like they're an ice cream cone. I hear her footsteps emerging up the stairwell before us. I recognize her hairdo in the dim light at the end of the bed. She bursts out laughing as she sees us laying in bed together.  
“Oh, boy, we had some fun last night, didn't we?” she declares, pressing her leather clad hands to her hips.  
“We sure did!” Lupe calls out from under the covers. She never lifts her hand from me as I sit upright for a better look at Mrs. Hamilton. It's so cold in that loft that chills run over my skin and down my back. I rub my eye with my free hand.  
“What's going on?” I clear my throat again.  
“There's a couple of guys here to see you,” she says.  
“A couple of guys?” The first guys who come to mind are Barney and Billy.  
“That Danish boy and some blond fellow.”  
Lars and Matt.  
“Okay—” I grunt out, clearing my throat once again. “Okay, I'll get dressed.”  
I rub my other eye before pushing back the covers. I turn to Lupe once again as I'm putting my bare feet on the freezing cold carpet.  
“Party's over, I s'pose,” I tell her, and she fetches up a heavy sigh. Mrs. Hamilton doubles back down the stairs to give me some privacy. I pick up my underwear and my jeans from the floor.  
“You have such a cute butt,” she remarks from the bed.  
“I try my best,” I admit to her as I'm pulling up my jeans.  
“Nice, a little thick, and juicy.”  
“Like a couple of hamburger patties,” I flash a playful grin back at her as I'm putting my shirt back on: I left Lars' arrowhead pendant at home. Oh well. Don't really need it right now anyway.  
As I'm putting my socks and my boots back on, I hear Lars' voice from down below, followed by one of the girls' voices. Louie? No. That's not Morgan, either.  
Once I have my boots laced up, I turn back around to look at Lupe one last time, and her propping her head up with one hand, and brushing some of her dark hair back from her neck.  
“I'll catch you later, my fresh deadly desert rose,” I promise her, and she blows me a kiss. I catch it with one hand before I wheel around to head on to the second level to fetch my jacket from the chair. I gaze on back at the stage and Lupe's whole get up from last night. It was like a fusion of the high tech stuff in Seattle and the rustiness pervading New Orleans at the moment. This place does have more class in its stairwells and in Mrs. Hamilton's pussy than Oswego does in its entirety after all.  
I give my black curls a toss back from my head as I grab my coat and begin down the next stairwell to the bottom floor. I recognize the tattoos of Jessica Rabbit and Betty Boop inked upon her skin. I also recognize the short slightly chubby guy with the long smooth hair and the light scruff underlining his face standing next to the tall guy with a wave of golden blond hair upon his head.  
“There he is,” Lars remarks, and Matt turns around to see me with his thick eyebrows raised.  
“Dude!” he greets me.  
“Hey!” I declare to the both of them as I'm tugging on my jacket.  
“'Mornin', Joe,” Lizzy greets me.  
“'Mornin', Liz Master General,” is all I can come up with, and she bursts out laughing. I return to them. “What're you guys doing here? And furthermore, how'd you know I was here?”  
“I just had a hunch,” Lars confesses, “and Mr. Cameron here went along with it, like I told Nancy and Dominique to swing by here to pick you up.”  
“Pick me up? Where are we going?”  
“New York City,” Matt replies.  
“What's in New York City? Besides, the obvious—it being the city and everything.”  
“We're playing two nights worth of shows there. Us and Mother Love Bone.”  
“Oh, cool! The infamous Mother Love Bone.”  
“They're touring with Skid Row, too, no less,” Lars adds, adjusting the lapels of his big olive colored overcoat: he's got on a silky looking red scarf with golden paisley embroidered all over and a pair of little thin leather black gloves. Matt, meanwhile, has on a heavy black peacoat with a fiery red scarf and big black boots like what I've got on at the moment. “Anyways, let's get a move on—” Matt advises us. “I guess it's kind of a long drive from here down to New York and Kim's terrified of traffic.”  
“It's not that long, only four hours,” I point out. “Kim's afraid of traffic? You guys live in Seattle.”  
“Tripped me out, too,” Lars confesses, “but yeah, his—darling chauffeur is awaiting, though.”  
“Okay—I'll catch you girls later,” I wave to Lizzy and Mrs. Hamilton before we head out of Black Orchid into the bitter cold of the mid morning. There are two black cars awaiting us at the curb, humming quietly with whatever the hydrogen is bestowing power to. I recognize Chris and Kim in the passenger side in the one up front; and then I spot Dominique and her lush black curls seated behind the wheel of the car behind them. Her face lights up when she recognizes me.  
“There he is!” she greets me as I open the back door on the passenger side. “Our morning cup of Joey.”  
“Cup of Joey,” I chuckle at that as I climb into the seat. Lars gets into the seat right behind her while Matt takes the front; he leans over to give her a kiss before clicking on his seat belt. I can still taste Lupe on my lips and smell her in my clothes and inside of my nose.  
We head off, following the other car, towards the other side of town to board onto the highway to head on down to the City.  
“Quite the town you live in, Joey,” Dominique remarks as we pass by Brick's neighborhood. God, I hope he's alright. I hope that whatever is afflicting him goes away because the image of those cybernetic feathers sprouting from his head makes my skin itch. I can only imagine how painful it must be for him.  
“It's nowhere special,” I admit, “not much happens and it's kinda boring and lonely if you don't have someone to talk to or hang out with, y'know?”  
“Of course.”  
“Seattle can be like that, too,” says Matt.  
“Really? Seattle?” I'm stunned by that. “It's such a… big, advanced place, though.”  
“It's just that. All the high tech stuff can get a little monotone, like Dominique and Nancy both have seen how walking downtown has gotten a little quiet.”  
“Yeah, it wasn't long ago,” Dominique adds, “she and I could take the bus from the University District over to West Seattle and then walk down to Pike Place Market, and we could talk to people on the way there. We'd talk to all the vendors and the shop keepers and whomever we wanted. But lately she and I go there and we're lucky to speak to one person. Everyone's in a sour mood and robotics have taken the place of the vendors in the market place.”  
That reminds me…  
“Have you guys seen Maya?” I ask them.  
“The girl you found?” Matt recalls.  
“Yeah. How's she doing? Is she alright?”  
“I totally forgot she's still up there,” Lars mutters to me.  
“I haven't seen her,” Matt confesses, “but Nancy has, though.”  
“After what happened at the school,” Dominique adds as she changes lanes, “she morphed back into her human form and then ran out of there before the fire alarms went off. Not even a couple of days later, Nan spotted her while she was headed over to the little art school she goes to. She was all huddled up against a dumpster in the heart of downtown. She didn't want to bother her, though, because she was looking around like an animal on the hunt for something.”  
“That was a few weeks ago, too,” I point out as I remember everything Molly told me about her. Dumpster diving in New Orleans with Delphine and that strange man; I guess she's back to her roots, but this time in a different setting.  
“I guess she's used to places like that, too,” Dominique continues, “moving around as much as she has, it's going to make her scrounge around like that on the streets and in the gutters. My hope is she's okay, too, because even we are still adjusting to all the advancements up there. Who knows how outsiders like her react to it.”  
We fall back into silence for a moment, and then Matt sticks in a copy of Ultramega OK into the disc player to fill in the void of silence. I've got Maya on the mind as the landscape turns from lush forest to barren flatlands to the foothills of the Appalachians. Soon, I recognize the tiny towns marking the outskirts of the City, in particular Monticello. I'm getting flashbacks to when I sang for Anthrax and I had to make the drive down here by myself in my old shabby car, and I had to make my way through the arteries of the city to find the recording studio. I'm still amazed I never got lost along the way.  
Soon we're in the heart of Manhattan and mere blocks the place where I used to hang out with Anthrax. And then Dominique speaks again.  
“I guess Anthrax is playing about a block away from where Soundgarden and Mother Love Bone are performing later today.”  
My stomach does a back flip. Oh, my God.  
“Playing with their new singer—John is his name? John Bush. From Armored Saint.”  
Lars turns his head to look at me and I look over at him. It's like living inside of a dream. My hope is nothing dramatic happens tonight. All I want is to relax and watch Soundgarden perform again with this other band Mother Love Bone. It's only two in the afternoon and thus, as the car before us takes a parking spot at the curb right outside of the venue. Dominique pulls up right behind them and tugs on the parking lever.  
The hydrogen power underneath us drifts and dies down and the four of us climb out to the street. I glance up at the towering buildings around us and the graying sky overhead. I think it's going to rain as I turn around to see Chris and Kim climbing out of the car in front of us, their black hair streaking from behind them against the burgeoning winds. Hiro and Nancy rise up from the other side of the car: she's got on a wide pink and black striped scarf wrapped around her neck which makes her face look a little rounder and more feminine.  
“Here, want me to help you guys out?” I offer the four of them.  
“Oh, thanks, man!” Chris tells me as he opens the truck so as to take out their guitars and their accompanying amps. We're bone broke musicians in a big world: we need to look out for each other. I help the four of them lug their equipment into the side door on the side of this two story pale brick building; for a split second, I think I spot Charlie down the block before I disappear behind the corner, but I can't say for sure. We head into the cozy corridor with a wooden floor and single iron wrought lights suspended from thick black wires. It reminds me of the French Quarter in here except it smells of burning leaves and jagermeister. Chris and Kim lead the way down to their lush dressing room with a back wall lined with glittery black tapestry and the big black velvet couch; on the other side of the room is the entrance to what I eventually find out to be the stage: a stretch of black shiny wood before another thick black tapestry. This part smells of fresh with lemons, as if they just cleaned this place up for the bands to perform.  
I'm still thinking of Maya as Lars and I help them set up their instruments. I'm thinking of her and also Delphine.  
That's another question I have is what happened to Delphine after Lars and I blacked out. Did she drink us under the table? Or did she put something in our drinks to knock us out? Who knows and I'm sitting on the stool behind Matt's big drum kit with his drumsticks in one hand.  
I peer out to all the empty seats making up the audience area, all of them stretching back into the darkness covering the front entrances. Soon this place will be riddled with moshers and rockers for these three bands playing here. God, I miss it. I miss standing out at the front of a band and singing my heart out for the world to hear. Maybe I can convince Soundgarden to sing a song with them because the whole vibe here has me feeling mournfully nostalgic.  
I peer down at the drums and with a lick and a promise, I'm a little boy thinking he's Phil Collins again.  
The sound of guitar distortion catches my ear and I turn my head to the sight of Kim tuning his guitar and playing a swirling riff. I tilt my head to the side.  
“Never heard that song before,” I remark.  
“Huh?” He clamps his fingers to the fret board to silence it.  
“Never heard that one. Is that new?”  
“Sorta. This is a riff Chris has been kicking around for a while.”  
He plays it again and it tinkles and swirls, almost like the lead riff on a Beatles song.  
“What's it called?” I ask him.  
“Kim!” Matt calls him from behind the curtain.  
“'Fresh Deadly Roses'—” He turns his head to face him. “—what's up?”  
“Andy and the boys just pulled up. Stone told me Skid Row should be here soon, too, and you know what that means.”  
“Showtime!” I call out.  
“Showtime!” he echoes, and then he hesitates at the sight of me. “Drums are a good look for you, man.”  
“I am a drummer, too, after all.”  
“Oh, yeah, that's right! Anyways, c'mon and help us, Joe—” He disappears behind the curtain; Kim sets down his guitar and follows him.  
I set down the sticks on top of the snare before I stand to my feet. I examine the drum kit for another few seconds.  
Soon. Soon, I'll be behind the old kit of my own once again.


	4. (maya the muse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this next chapter is dedicated to an old friend of mine whom I went to school with. fly high, my dear 

November 19, 1988. Somewhere near Manhattan, New York.  
“I'm totally deaf right now—huh?”  
Lars, Dominique, and Nancy are leading me back to the dressing room. It's after the show and I was utterly enthralled by Mother Love Bone in particular. Their frontman, Andy, is another reminder of myself with his long hair and the big white stars decorated on his navy blue trousers, skipping around and sprinting about the stage: at one point, I literally pictured back to all the times I sang “Indians” live. The sole difference seems to be is he's a golden blond like Matt and he's quite heavier compared to me. They all refer to him as “L'Andrew the Love Child”, a nickname that I feel resonates within me, to every inch of me.  
I know Anthrax is right down the block from us but all I can think about is what I had just witnessed following Soundgarden's set. My ears are ringing from the four of us standing there on the side and watching them. I can't get that one song out of my head, the one that goes “Stardog Champion…” or whichever.  
Lars guides us further offstage to behind the tapestries and he opens his mouth to tell me something but he sounds like he's about a mile away down a metal pipe.  
“Huh?” I ask him, raising my voice. I rub my ears to show that I can't hear him, and then Dominique's voice comes in, sounding as though she's being enhanced by that cybernetic stuff in Seattle and wants to come my way to upstate.  
“Lars asked if you want something to eat,” she repeats.  
“I do, yeah!”  
“It's getting late, you know—” he's saying as the ring fades out from my ears. He checks his wristwatch. “Oh, yeah, it's getting to be pretty late.”  
“So how'd you like them?” Nancy asks me, her voice coming in clearer compared to the two of them.  
“Mother Love Bone? I'm amazed I still have my guts intact,” I confess to her, rubbing my stomach, and the two girls burst out laughing at me. “And Soundgarden killed once again, too! But yeah, let's get something to eat.”  
“Kim told me it'll be a while before Skid Row hits the stage,” Lars points out, his voice clearing up as if I'm surfacing from under water. “And there's a quaint little bar across the street that looks like an ice cream parlor.”  
“Oh, yeah, that little place!” I recall, scratching my ear. “I think Frankie and Charlie went there a few times while we were recording Spreading.”  
Lars guides down the dim lit corridor, which still smells of burning leaves, towards what I presume to be the side door. He pushes open the door and we're met with a strong gust of bitter cold wind. I tug at the lapels of my jacket and Nancy and Dominique huddle close to me. Lars' long light brown hair streaks back from the side of his head; meanwhile, those tall black wrought iron lamps lining the street are shining golden yellow light upon us and the little bit of drizzle that's starting to fall. It's everything I imagined New York City to be, even now, standing down the block from where my old band is now playing.  
I take a glimpse up to the buildings around us and the cold concrete and bricks that surround them. It's hard to believe that Seattle is so far ahead of us as they are at the moment. The City here is still trying to come to terms with it being the twentieth century as I watch some drizzle collecting around the gears of the fire escapes and the bases of the streetlights.  
But then there's the little bar across the street, the one with the bright pink and blue neon lights resting in the window and looks exactly like an ice cream place. The neon feels closer to home even with the sight of that before us.  
At least there's no street cleaners to keep an eye out for as Lars is leading the way through the space between two cars parked at the curb towards the street. We're using the gold light and the pink neon to light our way; the drizzle's turning into full on rain as we reach the other sidewalk. Lars opens the door for the three of us and we're met with a lush parlor bar that's in every shade of deep red I can think of. The black and white stone floor is so clean and shiny, I could probably eat straight up food off of it. The whole place smells of fresh lemons mixed with gin and juice; there's neon upon the walls shining down on us. I have the mental note of not drinking in mind as we're making our way over to the bar on the left side of the room.  
But I spot some black curls over on the other side of the room. I recognize those black curls, too, even as they're ducking out of sight. As the three of them are taking their seats on the narrow black stools, I hold up a finger to Lars.  
“I'll be right back,” I tell him.  
I hurry over to the other side of the room only to find a small warm lit corridor leading down to the bathrooms. Those black curls and that gorgeous face blurring out of sight before heading into the ladies' room.  
“Maya?” I call to her from the entrance of the corridor. She turns to look at me and I recognize that horizontal scar on her forehead. Her eyes widen at the very sight of me.  
“Joey—” Her voice is light and delicate like lace. Her knees quiver and shake as she ambles over to me with her arms outstretched; she's like a little billy goat staggering over to me. She holds me close while I keep one hand on the back of her head.  
“How'd you get here?” I ask her in a hushed voice.  
“How else?” She points at my chest even though I'm not wearing anything other than my shirt. And then I realize what she's talking about.  
“A wormhole?” She nods her head. I lean closer to the crown of her head, which smells of grease and new car. She's been in the underbelly of the city.  
“I was thinking about you earlier,” I confess to her, bowing in closer to her face to look into her dark eyes; the skin upon her face is as white as bone. I can tell she hasn't eaten. “Like what happened to you.”  
“Please forgive me,” she tells me in that gentle British accent. “I didn't mean to frighten you. That has always been my fear—is frightening another soul with what lurks within me.”  
I want to tell her about mine and Lars' conversation with Molly down in New Orleans but I don't know how she would react to it.  
“I tried to return to Nottingham,” she continues, “but I don't believe there's a wormhole connecting it from where I was in Seattle. I was looking for you. Candace, too, but mostly you.”  
“Why were you looking for me?” I ask her in a near whisper. She drops her gaze down to the clean stone floor underneath us and sighs through her nose.  
“I need you,” she pleads to me in a voice so soft she almost breathes it. “I need you.”  
“What do you need me for?” I kindly ask her. “Huh? Tell me. What do you need?”  
She swallows and shifts her weight, and then she lifts her gaze to my face. She's staring right into my eyes: I can make out a thin line of bluish white neon light inside of her pupils. It's a tiny line, but I can see it in there.  
“I need you to see me,” she tells me. I knit my eyebrows at that.  
“What do you mean?” She swallows and shudders as I move my hands onto her shoulders. She then raises her hands to the collar of her overcoat. She opens the collar and reaches into the interior for something. And then she takes out a little booklet with a black cover.  
“New edition?” I ask her.  
“Yes. I managed to write this up in the university library in times when the coast was clear. After I transformed, it seemed to have mortified more than—more than you and Lars.”  
She hands me the booklet with a solemn look upon her face.  
“I have witnessed and experienced the worst of pain, Joey. I need you to feel me here.”  
“I do. I do feel you. I feel you're on the brink of death.”  
I gently take this latest copy of After the Watershed, once again wrapped in that thick, heavy cardstock. She gazes into my eyes once again; I flash a glimpse at the scar on her forehead, her third eye.  
“I need you to see me,” she repeats. “Please.”  
“You're a muse, Maya,” I remark to her, opening the front cover to behold the first page. “Of course I'll see you. I promise. Do you mind if I share this with Lars?”  
“No,” she begs, her eyes growing large again and her expression resembling to that of a deer in a pair of headlights.  
“No? But he's been looking for you, too—he—he should know about where you've been and he should know about this, too. It's only fair.”  
“No. Please don't. I just want you to see it for yourself. Joey—”  
She leans in closer to my body, so close that I hold the zine to my chest and she presses against my forearms.  
“—you're the one who found me. You saved me. You set me free. And you know where to find me.”  
I can still only see those faint glints of neon inside of both of her pupils, like they're embedded within her.  
“You know where to find me,” she repeats before backing away from me. She doubles back towards the ladies' room and ducks in through the door. I'm alone in the hall with this copy of her zine resting in my hands. She wants me to read it for myself. Okay, then.  
I tuck it inside of my jacket and make sure it stays hidden as I return to the bar to join Lars, Dominique, and Nancy.


	5. (a leonard cohen afterword)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Give me a Leonard Cohen afterword,  
> so I can sigh eternally.”  
> -“Penny Royal Tea”, Nirvana

November 19, 1988. Somewhere near Manhattan, New York.  
I have the copy of After the Watershed tucked underneath the interior of my jacket to keep it totally out of sight. I made a vow to Maya, and if this, confining my eyes to her writing while hiding it from Lars, then it’s a deal. I must protect her. I must take a little peek into her musings and figure it out for myself. Lars can help me more if he wishes: here, I’m getting yet another free little window into her mind.  
I slip into the spindly barstool right next to Dominique: to her left is Nancy, then followed by Lars. I don’t know if I can share this new edition with these two ladies but it’s better if I keep it under wraps. I feel the card stock making up the front cover brushing against the armpit of my shirt. I hope I can steal a moment under these bold neon lights in order to read it.  
The bar meanwhile is comprised of wood that’s about the color of molasses and is also so clean that I can eat right off of the surface. It smells of fresh lemons with maybe a kiss of whiskey. Right in front of us stands a display of wine and whiskey bottles: in front of me is a rich dark brown bottle of sarsaparilla next to another bottle of root beer. I’m still promising myself not to drink especially after what happened in New Orleans.  
Every so often I take a glimpse to my left to make sure the three of them are not paying any attention to me. Then again, if I get any questions, I could probably wave it off but who knows how this is going to work. I’m about ready to slip it out from under my coat lining when Maya herself saunters out from behind the bottles with a black apron in hand. Her black waves drift behind her head with each step; and then she freezes right before us.  
“Maya, what—?” Lars sputters out, and she recoils at the sight of him. I gape at her while Dominique and Nancy are sitting there next to me in stunned silence.  
“I—didn’t know you worked here?” I’m almost at a loss for words.  
“I did for a little while and then the bartenders all went on strike,” she explains to us as she’s tying the apron behind her back. Must be the other reason why she came back East. “I was offered to be a bar back but I’d rather serve instead because writing only does so much for me. girl needs to make a living somehow.”  
“Couldn’t agree more...” Nancy’s voice trails off. Seems legitimate, though.  
“What may I get for the—“ She swallows at the sight of Lars. “—four of you?”  
“I’ll—have a beer,” Lars starts.  
“Cosmo,” Nancy adds.  
“A lemon drop,” says Dominique.  
“Sarsaparilla—you got anything to eat?” I ask her in one fell swoop.  
“We have pasta and potstickers,” she replies, her voice lightening at the sight of me.  
“I say we have both,” Dominique suggests.  
“We can each have pasta,” Nancy elaborates, “and we can have a platter of potstickers right here in front of us.”  
Maya then nods her head at us, and flashes a raised brow at me. I still have the zine tucked under my arm as she steps back around the display when Lars leans back with his hands upon the top of the bar.  
“Man, that was left-field,” I remark, clasping onto the edge of the zine cover.  
“Tell me about it,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair, “I was not expecting that. Not expecting that at all.”  
Once the words escape his lips, she returns with a big silver platter of big potstickers, each of them crispy looking and golden brown on the outside. There’s got to be at least a dozen here as she plunks it down before us.  
“—or that, for that matter.”  
“Holy shit, this is a lot of potstickers,” I declare as she reaches under the bar for four polished silver forks. She bows her head as she hands one to Lars, but she leans in closer to my face as she gives me the fourth and final one.  
“Eat up for me,” she whispers to me. “Please.” I swallow as she steps back to make our drinks. The three of them watch her in stunned silence which gives me the chance to read this new edition of After the Watershed. I slip it out from underneath my jacket and hold it down on the stool next to me so it’s out of sight and I don’t have to eat with one hand.  
Using the neon lights around us, and using my left hand to eat up the potstickers, I take a look at the first passage, written in grayish typewriter ink:

“I had the misfortune of using up all the money I had put away following the bartenders’ strike in Manhattan and the Bronx as part of promoting my own writing. Trying to be like Bruce Pavitt of Subterranean Pop indeed has its pitfalls if I might say so myself.”

Well, that explains that.

“If you must ask why I decided to pick up the job of bartender in the filthy river that is downtown New York City, it’s to escape my old life. I was held captive in my own childhood home and I decided to not have another minute with it.”

Maya herself then returns with a big bowl of vermicelli for me and a glass masonry jar filled with whitish flakes.  
“Parmesan?” she offers me.  
“Eh, just a little dusting.”  
She sprinkles some over the pasta before moving onto Dominique. I continue reading:

“The story is that I escaped from Massachusetts in order to find my sister given she was on a book tour in the Northeast. Candace traveled away from the Boston area because she knew of everything there. She knew the territory all too well and thus she avoided going there.”

I raise an eyebrow at that. That doesn’t make sense. Meanwhile, this pasta is smooth and embedded with lots of garlic butter just how I like it. Keep going...

“I worried that the circuitry would break with the bitter upstate New York cold but I need to say that a lack of anesthesia leaves quite the memory.”

That still doesn’t make any sense.   
“Lack of anesthesia.” Maybe there’s more to that third eye scar than I originally thought. But “circuitry” is what’s throwing me. Yeah, there was that weird glint if neon light in her pupils but it could’ve just been a reflection of the neon lights behind us. Maybe I’m just overthinking things. Maybe I’m about ready to close this and focus on filling my belly because I kinda wish she’d have elaborated more because this is a little baffling.  
But with every word I’m taking in from her, I’m taking a bite of pasta. Every so often I reach over to the separate platter for a potsticker but I’m mostly fixated on these intricate silky little noodles. Never came to a bar that also served pasta and potstickers before.  
I also never came anywhere that sells food where they give second helpings, either. Before I can even so much as reach the bottom of the bowl, she returns with a big pot of vermicelli and puts in more with the plastic tongs. I take a sip of sarsaparilla and continue on with reading:

“But by some miracle I managed to press on throughout New York and found my job. I was there for a couple of months and then the strike happened. That was my chance to catch up with Candace. It was definitely a difficult task given I was reported missing and had I surfaced, I would’ve been dragged back to the very shithole I was trying to escape from.”

And I’m officially glad I didn’t take her to the police. I guess it must have been pretty brutal in order for both her and Candace to want to leave. Makes me wonder what kind of home they lived in. I also think back to what Molly told me and Lars in how she suggests it to be cabin fever. I’m not buying it as I take more bites of vermicelli. I can feel myself getting full but it’s just so damn good.

“I traveled across the outskirts of the city, heading out to a little town called Monticello where I lay low for about three days. There was only one television to be found in the whole town and that was the diner I scrounged at. I decided to leave because I knew I would be found. And so I traveled through the backwoods of upstate New York, trying to find my sister and the golden ticket out of my old life. I got about as far as Syracuse when I realized I had only just enough money to squeak me out to a city called Rochester but it was a stretch. I wound up in Syracuse with the few American dollars in my pocket and I spent them on a bag of nuts because I was getting hungry. I kept going until I ran out of fuel about a mile outside of a town called Oswego.”

So she got there and I found her on accident. Holy shit.  
Maya herself returns to me with a third helping of pasta, and she’s giving me a lot in the helpings, too. I hope I don’t fall asleep eating because I wanna know more.

“My memory is a bit foggy but I do recall walking through the pouring rain towards a church. A block ahead of that was a Denny’s restaurant so if nothing, I figured I could scrounge behind the restaurant and then camp out at the church. But before I could go any further past the front door of the church, a black haired pastor told me to come inside. I told him thank you and I kept walking. I don’t remember anything after that, except when I woke up, I was being cradled in the arms of the most wonderful man. I was weak and the thought of food made me—and still makes me—sick to my stomach. I don’t know what happened to me, but there I was, face to face with two beautiful brown eyes, as brown as the earth. I was cradled against the loveliest body, as soft as a pillow and yet as strong as I could ever imagine a man to be. He called himself Joey and he is undoubtedly the most beautiful man in the world because he saved my life.”

There’s a part of me that wants to cry but I can’t because the three of them will want to know. There’s also all the food she gave us. I drink down the rest of the sarsaparilla and groan inside of my throat.  
“Wow,” Nancy breathes a sigh of relief. Dominique leans forward over the top of the bar with the side of her head resting in her hand.  
“Oh, God, I’m so full—“ Lars groans, leaning back in the stool and rubbing his belly. And I am, too: I set down my fork and lean back to lay a hand on my stomach, which is very warm and very firm. I’m surprised the lower part of my belly isn’t poking out a little bit because come to think of it, I ate a ton of food, all those potstickers and three big helpings of vermicelli with lots of garlic and butter. Then again, Maya did give us a lot of food.   
So that’s her story: I found her by accident all because she wants to be reunited with her sister. But that still doesn’t explain why she came back here to the City, though. That also doesn’t explain what actually happened to her in Boston. Or outside of the church, for that matter.  
I have so many more questions, and I’m feeling so full that it’s going to be a while before I can ruminate it much less consider seeing Sebastian Bach and Company. I let out a low whistle when I catch a glimpse of writing at the bottom of the page next to my fingers. I give my belly a massage as I crane my neck forward for a better look at this afterword:

“That night I had a dream about him. I am sincere when I say his body is the most beautiful I have ever seen. He’s like a searchlight, caressing over me with his indigenous radiance and bathing me with his gentleness. He exposed me, with the rope slagged around my ankles like an umbilical cord. In my dream, I approached him while he was in bed. I wanted to come closer to him, to love him and hold him in the way he did with me. I touched his face and approached his dark delicate lips when he whispered ‘I want you to give to me’ before kissing my neck. I woke up before I realized I had moved so close to him. Oh.. how I wish to feel him again, in all his warmth and softness.”

I then lift my head to catch a glimpse of her peeking around the corner of the display at me. I still have my hand rested upon my stomach, so very warm. And I don’t know what to think, besides what Lars is telling me.  
“Joey, I’m gonna need you and Dominique to help me outside. My legs are like lead...”  
I close the booklet and tuck it under the interior of my jacket again. I sit up and I feel heavy. I’m skinny but I feel so heavy. I look at Maya again and she’s eyeing my body.  
And I still don’t know what to think.


	6. ("it's a hospital, genius")

“My stomach is so distended—Jesus,” Nancy groans.  
We stumbled back outside to the drizzle, which at some point turned into a straight up rain because it's collecting all along the storm drain before us and all across the stones lining the curb. Poor Nancy is leaning against Dominique as if she's drunk even though she had only one thing to drink for tonight. Lars lets out a loud belch which echoes over the sidewalk.  
Meanwhile, I feel like I've just swallowed a big bowling ball, but I don't look it. And if anything, even though my legs feel like they're heavy and made of lead, I think reading the zine and drinking sarsaparilla helped me because Lars looks like he's having a hard time keeping his balance.  
He busts out laughing as he clings onto the trunk lid of a nearby hydrogen car, and then he almost falls ass over teakettle into the increasing waters in the storm drain.  
Dominique gives her hair a toss as she's leading Nancy to the curb where we crossed earlier. I take a glimpse over my shoulder back to the front window of the bar. Maya's ducking under the neon; and I turn all the way to take a better look at her. The scar holding back her third eye has a faint sheen of pink from the neon and her eyes have lost that neon glint within them. She legitimately looks like a human girl right there, letting some of her hair fall into her face as she gazes on at me.  
I have the copy of After the Watershed tucked right underneath my jacket to keep it from getting wet—not so much that Lars doesn't see it, but so it's not rendered to a pile of mush. She puckers her lips and then blows me a kiss.  
I still don't know what make of that afterword, but my head's getting wet and the girls are crossing the street. I show her a friendly little smile before turning back towards the street. I did save her after all. But now I'm extra curious: what's her home life like over in Boston? And more importantly, what happened to her ten years ago when Molly wasn't looking?  
Nancy and Dominique are ambling across the soaking wet black street holding each other. Right behind them, I'm turning my head every so often to make sure Lars doesn't lose his balance and fall right in the path of an incoming car. The two of them reach the other sidewalk first and post up for me and Lars. I run my fingers through my black curls as I'm stepping upon the curb. Lars staggers towards us with one hand clasped to the side of his head even though he's not wearing a hat.  
He peers down at his wrist to check the time.  
“Aw, man, we missed Skid Row!” he proclaims.  
“Well, shit,” I remark, keeping a hand on my stomach. “So what now?”  
“Well, the boys' hotel is up in Yonkers,” Dominique points out. “I say we drive up there and call it a night.”  
“What about Lars and me?”  
“Good question,” he chuckles. Getting kind of punch drunk right now. Or maybe he's actually drunk. I don't know: I didn't pay attention.  
My stomach turns and I bring my fingers to my mouth. They're not as loud as the one Lars let out a little bit ago, but they're still coming up my throat.  
“Must be that sarsaparilla you drank up, Joe,” Dominique chuckles at me; I swear she winked at me but I think it must've been my imagination because it's dark and I'm really sleepy.  
“He's also the only one who didn't drink,” Nancy points out.  
“So driving up to Yonkers is in my hands?” I ask her, lowering my hand. And without hesitating, Dominique reaches into her pocket for the car key and drops it into my free hand.  
“It's just a few blocks,” Nancy points out.  
“A few blocks in New York City can get pretty long, though, Nance,” Dominique points out. “I'm sure Mr. Joey here can do it for us, though.”  
When she says “do it”, I think back to when she and I had our little encounter in her and Matt's house back in Seattle. Maybe there's a little something more to her that she's not telling me simply because she's in a relationship. Who knows and all I feel like doing right now is climbing into the front seat of the car and reclining back to nurse my stomach.  
Lucky for me, we only have to walk a few feet to the car parked at the curb: I'm guessing Chris, Kim, Hiro, and Matt already left for the hotel because their car is gone. I'm sure we can explain once we're at the hotel.  
I keep my free hand out so as to unlock the door and start up the hydrogen power inside there. I'm climbing into the front seat before a harsh gust of bitter cold wind can blow my hair into my face. I settle in right as the warmth inside of my stomach is spreading throughout my body, all over my belly and my chest and down my hips and my thighs. I don't feel like driving, but I have to. I feel the cover of After the Watershed pressed against my shirt and the interior of my coat so I know I've protected it from the rain.  
Lars stumbles into the seat next to me while the girls take the back. The car's already hummed to life which means I can just pull on the lever and mosey away from there.  
Surprisingly, there's not a lot of traffic for this part of Manhattan, which means I make most of the lights green. But the street seems to drag on forever into the darkness. I know the Bronx is here somewhere, followed by Yonkers and hopefully either Dominique or Nancy will tell me where I turn off at. But I don't even think of it. I don't think they're thinking of it either because once we approach the outskirts of the Bronx, the whole car falls silent. Silent except for the rain and the quiet hum of the hydrogen underneath us.  
I do feel my eyelids growing heavy just before one stoplight. I blink several times to stay awake but they still want to close as we're driving further into the darkness.  
All that lovely pasta and those decadent potstickers. That lush sweet sarsaparilla.  
I feel so silky on the inside. I just want to kick back in the seat here.  
What the fuck, I'm half Italian, for crying out loud. I should be acquainted with eating so much but it could be from the blackness of the night around us and all the warm amber streetlights over the wrought iron and the cold metal and bricks…  
I'm bowing my head forward right before the next green light.

I don't even know what happens next, except darkness.

I don't think I'm dead, though. If I was dead, I would've seen Death back there, right as I bowed my head onto the edge of the steering wheel.  
But I didn't.  
Instead, I hear a steady beeping to my left. To my right is someone breathing hard. Under my head is something soft like a pillow.  
I open my eyes to see a lit up rectangle on a clean gray ceiling.  
“What—” I reach up with my right hand to touch my face to make sure I really am not dead and I have a bit of gauze wrapped and clamped down my index finger with a metal hold. I roll my head to the left to find I'm hooked up to a heart monitor. The person next to me groans and I roll my head over the pillow to see Lars laying on his side with a piece of gauze attached to the side of his head. He's waking up, too.  
“What the hell happened?” I groan out: I have a dull ache in my lower back right above my hips. My head also hurts. I blink several times. “Where am I?”  
“It's a hospital, genius,” he grumbles, scowling.  
“What're you gettin' mad at me for?” I demand. My head really hurts.  
“We could've died, Joey.”  
“Oh, c'mon, man—I was the only one of us not drinking. At least I had the clear head.” Right as I say that, a sharp pain surges over my forehead and along my temple. I clasp a hand to that side of my head.  
“The car's still totaled,” he points out, opening one eye to glare at me. “Clear head or not, we still wound up here.”  
“I still fell asleep at the wheel, too.” I rub my eyes with the one hand without the gauze. “Still, what the fuck happened?”  
“You just said it—you fell asleep at the wheel. Oh, wait, you mean what happened afterwards?”  
“Yes.”  
“We blew through a red light and plowed into a bails of white wires, like the ones we kept seeing in Seattle. I guess—” He rolls over onto his back with a groan in his throat. “—I guess we missed the back of the truck unloading the wires by about a few inches. You and I could'a literally lost our heads.”  
I hoist myself up onto my elbows and that's when my head pounds so hard that I feel sick. The warm soft feeling in my stomach is gone now, replaced with full on nausea. I take a look down at the pads stuck to my chest and the top of my stomach; I lift up the blankets to look at my hips and my thighs. Aside from the bruise on my right thigh, it's good to know I didn't break any bones.  
My head still hurts and I have a horrible pain in my back.  
I lay back down with the hem of the blanket around my waist.  
“How are the girls?” I ask him, my voice breaking. “Are they okay?”  
“Yes, they are,” he replies, shifting his weight in his bed. “Nancy got a little concussion but Dominique called the medics once the dust settled. She thought you and I were goners at first because we had both passed out and you were all slumped over in your seat. The last thing I heard—before I passed out again—was you hit your head on the window—”  
“That's probably why my head hurts.”  
“—and the medics said the impact could've fucked up your back a little bit.”  
“And my back does hurt. Ouch—”  
“The car hit on my side, though.”  
“So you got the worst of it,” I follow along.  
“Yeah. I jerked my neck, dislocated my shoulder and my knee cap, and I sprained my wrist.”  
I roll my head over again for a look at the gauze on his head as well as the bit of gauze on the side of his neck and down onto his shoulder. He's got his right arm out from underneath the blankets to show me the bandage on his wrist. “Dominique said the wires softened the blow but some of them still broke the windshield. She also swore no booze was involved, either.”  
“But where are we, though?”  
“Some hospital in Yonkers—forget what it's called. I woke up a little while ago and Nancy was here. She said—Soundgarden and Mother Love Bone are playing a second show tonight at the same venue but I don't think either of us are going to be up for it, though.”  
“Hell, no. As much as I wanna see them again, I just—ow—” A sharp pain surges up my back and I rest my wrist upon my forehead because I don't know what else to do.  
“Nancy said the doctor said your injuries should clear up in about a day or so, and they should be releasing you then. Whereas, me—I'm not so lucky.”  
“Think you might be here a while?”  
“At least until Friday. Which is Black Friday. So—so much for heading back to Denmark to spend a little time with my parents.”  
“Damn—”  
“Dominique also called Marcia and Sonia, and then your buddies and your parents, saying you're alright. Just—banged up.”  
Something catches my eye and I lift my head to the sight of black curls entering the room. I hoist myself up on my elbows again for a better look.  
“Maya,” I breathe out. She lunges for me and puts her arms around me.  
“Oh—be careful. I've been tenderized.” She gazes into my face and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.  
“This is my fault,” she whispers to me.  
“How so?”  
“I fed you all that food.”  
“Maya, darling—” Lars groans out, his voice stiff with pain, “—don't blame yourself.”  
“Yeah, I ate all that food,” I confess to her. “I should've been in more control.”  
“But I still fed it to you, though,” she points out. She has her hands on either side of my hips and her legs are dangling off the side of my bed. “I want to make it up to you. When do you get out of here?”  
“Lars told me the next day or so—wait, what is today?”  
“The twentieth. It's morning, too.”  
“The twentieth—so we were here overnight. But yeah, the next… day or so.”  
“Thanksgiving is this week, too.”  
“Yeah. I really don't give a rodent's behind about Thanksgiving, though. You know—me being Iroquois and everything…”  
“I still want to make it up to you, though,” she insists, looming in closer to my face. “I want to make it up to the both of you.”  
“Okay,” I tell her, and then I turn my head to Lars, who's still writhing in the hospital bed neighboring mine. “What do you say?”  
“I still don't think you're to blame, Maya—but I am all for it, though.”  
Maya still has that unsure look on her face at the sight of Lars, but I know she's meaning well here.  
At least I hope she's meaning well.


	7. (the injun doth speak too much)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Invisible kid,  
> never see what he did.  
> Got stuck where he hid,  
> fallen through the grid.”  
> -“Invisible Kid”, Metallica

November 21, 1988. Yonkers, New York.  
They kept me in the hospital for an extra day given my back has still been bothering me but come Tuesday, I'm finding myself putting my clothes back on and checking myself out. Lars is still asleep by the time I leave the room to sign myself out of the place. There's just one problem: I have no way of getting out of New York City and heading back upstate. I might have to flag down Nancy and Dominique before they leave the hotel, that is if they haven't already left.  
I also don't know where the hotel is, but I do know of my way around here and the Bronx.  
All the times I've come this way down from upstate to record my voice and hang out with Anthrax are starting to come back to me.  
I'm walking my way through the lobby towards the front door, and straightening the lapels of my jacket. I reach into my pocket for my pinky ring and put it on my right hand.  
At least my headache's gone. I still have a little twitch in my back but laying in that hospital bed has definitely helped.  
Wait a minute.  
Where's the zine? I didn't see it back in the room. Oh, Jesus Christ, don't tell me someone took it.  
I feel my heart sink as I'm stepping outside to the cold dreary gray.  
I'm looking around to the front driveway, at the smoothed out stones making up the pavement and the wrought iron streetlights lined up on the sidewalk before me. To think the big industry over in Seattle wants to make its way back East, specifically to the Northeast. I just think of all those banana slugs and those spiders down in New Orleans, and I can only wonder how many creatures here will suffer the same consequences they did if and when it's all lit up with that rich blue and green neon and there are street cleaners lining the storm drains.  
I know my way down to the Bronx: it's just what's going to happen afterwards is what's getting to me.  
I close my jacket and head on down the sidewalk. It's a frigid, bitter cold day here in the City, and the cold metal and brick and mortar around me isn't really helping matters. All the little shops and whatnot might as well have frost coating the bronze and brass gears upon their fire escapes and on the awnings over the windows. At least the steam rising out from the grated manhole covers gives me some hope of finding warmth here in the vast unknown. The supersized unknown looming before me. It's good to see hydrogen cars roaming about the place, but I have a feeling I don't want to know, though.  
I get to the first corner, or rather the last corner before reaching the outer limit of the Bronx, when a little bright blue car pulls up to the curb to the left of me in total silence.  
I stop and turn around to see Maya and her black curls behind the wheel. She rolls down the window on the passenger side.  
“Joey?” she calls to me. I lay my hands on the top of the door for a better look at her.  
“Hey. What's up?”  
“Do you need a ride?”  
“Dear God, yes. Lars is still out and I don't know if Nancy and Dominique are still at their hotel, so I literally have no other way of getting home.”  
“Well, I'm off today. Come inside and I'll take you back to Oswego.”  
I open the door and slide into the passenger seat next to her. Before I can even roll up the window and strap myself into the seat, she rolls away from the curb so I'm pressed against the edge of the seat as she begins to drive back the very way I came. When we reach the first crosswalk, I'm able to pull on the seat belt. She reaches next to her to push a button on the door. The window rolls up in smooth silence, and then she pulls away again.  
I'm glad I didn't eat anything prior to checking out because she's hard on the brakes and early on the gas. God damn.  
At least this is a hydrogen car. I can't imagine her doing this in a regular car like my old pile of scrap metal.  
She tosses her black curls back with a flip of her head.  
“Are you alright?” she asks me, her voice growing light and airy once again. “You look a lot better.”  
“Yeah. My back's still bothering me but that's a given, though.”  
She peers over at me with her eyebrows knitted together.  
“Where's the—the copy I gave you?”  
“I'm afraid I lost it. I couldn't help it. I didn't see it when I left the room.”  
“Oh, dear.” I clutch to the interior of the door and the center console as she slams on the brakes again before a stoplight.  
“I hope that wasn't your only copy.”  
“Oh, no. That was a photo copy. The hard copy is under your seat. I just wish you didn't lose it.”  
“There was nothing I could do, though,” I point out to her.  
“So—what did you think?”  
“Think what?” I turn my head to look at her.  
“What did you think of it all?”  
“First of all, you're hell of a writer. And second—I didn't realize you felt that way about me.”  
She tosses her hair back once again.  
“Well, it's true, you know. I recall waking up there on the sidewalk and seeing your face right before me as if I had just seen an angel. I thought I was dead. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. But the sound of your voice brought me back down to Earth. And—” She clears her throat.  
“—I really mean it when I said you have to be the most beautiful man in the world to me.”  
“What's your whole thing with Lars? Mind I ask you.” I relax as we clear a couple more intersections and head on out of town.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, whenever you see him, you retract a little bit, like he scares you.”  
“He doesn't scare me, though,” she replies in a soft tone.  
“Well—why the deer in headlights look whenever you see him, though?”  
“I don't do that, though.”  
I frown at that.  
“I've seen you do it.”  
“I do?”  
“Yeah. Your eyes get all big and you get really close to me, like he's going to hurt you or something.”  
“Interesting. Because I remember meeting Lars in England with his wife because I knew her.”  
“Mind I ask you how you met her?”  
“I met her in London while I was trying to find my footing with writing and publishing. Candace took me over there to help me out with everything and she was just so nice, working in the little house, the publishing house I was looking at. We became friends but she had one little vice, though.”  
“And what's that?”  
“Drinking. She enjoyed a drink probably more than Lars himself. She was definitely an eccentric, probably moreso than you.”  
“I'm no eccentric. Just dusty and disheveled.”  
She chuckles at that as the brass and iron making up the bridge enters our view. “I remember seeing some smears of white stuff on the hems of her coat sleeves all the time.”  
“White stuff? Like—powder?”  
“Yeah. I asked her what it was at one point and she always told me it was sugar, so I just assumed she was drinking herself to diabetes.”  
I'm not too sure of that but I'll take her word for it.  
“She was always so passionate,” she continues, “and I think that was how she and I 'clicked'—” She makes air quotes with her right hand while holding onto the steering wheel with her left. “—if you will. She loved writing as much as I did, but I don't know what happened to her, though. It was like she and Lars got married and I remember meeting him. I clicked with him, too, because he was passionate about music. There's a peculiar overlap with music and writing, like there's a lot to both that resonate with each other.”  
I think about the notepad full of song lyrics on my couch back home.  
“It's personable,” I tell her.  
“It's very personable, and it is such that the people who make one or the other seem to have a lot in common with the other side.”  
“You know, while you were in Seattle, I wrote nothing but lyrics to songs.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, just a bunch of songs for myself. I'm going to try to put music to them.”  
She flashes a glimpse at me with her eyebrows raised and the crease on her forehead crinkled.  
“I want to hear them,” she tells me.  
“You wanna be the first person to hear Joey singing solo?” I ask her, feeling the grin cross my face.  
“Please. It would be an absolute honor, Joey. I want to hear what your gentle heart and your gorgeous soul has to say.”  
She tosses her hair back yet again as we're reaching the outskirts of the City. The brass and the iron are giving way to more scraggly black trees. She's going out to Monticello. I think about her experience there and I wonder if she's going to risk it there. I feel a gentle gnawing inside of my stomach as I catch glimpse of a sign on the side of the road guiding us further upstate.  
“You know, it's one thing to feel someone's body against you,” she starts again. “It's one thing to feel the softest of flesh against you. It's a whole other level entirely to feel their mind. The absence of feeling, rather. When their flesh is silent, you can feel their mind at work. Does that make sense?”  
“Yeah—kinda. Like—absence makes the heart grow fonder? Like that?”  
“Somewhat.” She fondles the scar on her forehead and I squirm in my seat.  
“When I felt you against me on the fateful night, it felt like I was being hugged. It felt like nothing bad could happen to me again. Your chest and your stomach were so warm, and you had such a gentle touch—those fingertips pressed upon my head, protecting me from the pouring rain. I hadn't been held like that in so long.”  
I swallow at the sound of that. I don't know if it's the fact I hardly ate anything today or the fact I'm not used to musings like this, but my stomach is starting ache me a bit.  
“You haven't been held like that?” I repeat.  
“Yes. I long for touch like that at times, especially in times when I'm all alone on the streets with no one to speak to. I long for the touch my parents used to give me, and I long for the touch from a gentleman such as yourself.” She turns her head to me again, and this time her eyes are as big as they are when she sees Lars.  
“It's lonely being a wanderer.”  
I swallow again and the back of my throat is parched dry.  
“I hear you on that,” I confess to her.  
“It's lonely being a foster child and a child who moves around a lot.”  
“It's lonely being Native American, too,” I add. She turns her head again to look into my eyes.  
“And it's lonely being a writer on top of those two things.”  
“I also want to ask you,” I start, clearing my throat and resting a hand on my stomach, “what's up with the scar?”  
“What this?” She fondles the crease on her forehead.  
“Yeah. Like—what's the story behind that?”  
“I had surgery at one point. Like I have a low performing pituitary gland and I needed surgery for it—that's why I'm as small as I am. And it just never healed all the way.”  
I'm not too sure of that, especially after what happened in Seattle. Or the times I saw her apparition on the hockey rink.  
“I say we stop in Monticello—as dangerous as it is for me,” she suggests. “We can grab something to eat if you don't mind at all.”  
“I am starving,” I confess to her. “My stomach's starting to yell at me, so I don't mind at all.”  
There really isn't much here in Monticello as Maya takes the first exit off the highway. But she insists on feeding me. She's the only one with money after all.  
There's a cute little diner on the edge of town and she treats me there.  
My headache's starting to come back, but this time I think it's from not drinking any coffee or hardly any water this time around.  
Lucky for me, she guides me inside of the place and we take a seat at the little table closest to the front door.  
She just asks for a glass of water with a lemon wedge while she gets me a cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes. I'm absolutely famished: that hospital food wasn't bad, but I hadn't eaten anything this morning. The stack is bigger than I imagine but I don't really mind. The cakes are fluffy and accompanied with lots of melted butter and a bit of maple syrup. I offer her a bite but she again refuses.  
“Come on, Maya, you've got to eat something,” I tell her with my mouth part of the way full. But she shakes her head. I shrug my shoulders and insert the bite. I'm like a little boy eating breakfast with his auntie or his grandma: I eat everything on the plate and drink down the coffee even as our waitress pours me a second cup. I lean over the plate with my arm resting on the top of the table and my other hand holding the white mug up to my mouth. My stomach is warm and feeling soft again.  
“Feel better?” she asks me: the overhead lights are illuminating the scar on her forehead to where it's pure white.  
“Very much so.” I drink up the rest of the coffee, and she pays and leaves a tip for the waitress. She leads me back out to the car like she's my girlfriend. Some people are kind of looking at us like we're boyfriend and girlfriend, even though we're not. I'm the guy who saved her life. Although in a way she kind of does feel like my girlfriend because she's sharing stuff with me that she doesn't want to share with Lars or anyone else.  
Rather, she's just a girl who happens to be my friend, treating me well and paying it forward back to me.  
We get about ten miles up the road when she stops again, this time for a refill of fuel and a milkshake for me. I'm not even hungry but I take it because it's chocolate. No sooner had I drank it down about twenty miles outside of Syracuse when she stops again, this time it's for me to take a piss. When I return out of the men's room and back outside, I find she's gotten me a wedge and a bowl of clam chowder.  
“My goodness,” I confess as I take the spoon from her and hold the little bowl right before my chest. I'm really not hungry at all, and those pancakes filled me up plenty, but I'm seduced by the warmth of the chowder and she has those little oyster crackers in her hand. She sticks one into her mouth before handing them to me.  
Oh, I see now.  
I crumble a couple of them over the chowder before taking a bite. The potatoes are perfect and the chowder itself is creamy and warm. It all feels like a warm hug on the inside. It's like she wants me to have my cup full at all times. As we make our way through the donut hole that is the heart of Syracuse, I'm feeling pretty full at this point. I don't think I've ever eaten this much in just a couple of hours before. Not even when I was with Anthrax did I eat this much. Come to think of it, I don't think I ate this much the other night before the accident.  
We pass by that one exit I took to visit Brick in the hospital.  
Oh my fucking God, Brick.  
I hope he's alright. I hope the feathers sprouting out of his head have gone away. I can hope that as I set down the empty cup on the center console and rest a hand on my stomach. I'm feeling so warm and so full that I'm about ready to fall asleep right there in the seat next to her. Maya, meanwhile, seems to be completely unfazed by the fact she's barely eaten all morning, or who knows how long for that matter.  
I run my fingers through my hair as I lean the seat back to ease the pressure on my stomach. It doesn't actually hurt, I'm just feeling really full.  
We're not too far from home when she picks up the wedge for me and hands it to me.  
“No—no—” I resist her, keeping my hands on my stomach. “I can't. Not now.”  
But she doesn't let go of it as we near the outskirts of Oswego. I recognize those lush trees near the golf course and the country club when she hands it to me again.  
“I still can't. I think I ate too much—”  
We reach my apartment complex and she still hasn't set the damn thing down or put it out of my sight. She takes it with her as I lead her to my front door.  
Now I know how Lars felt the other night when he ate and drank too much at the bar: I'm trying hard to not lose my balance as I stick the teeth into the keyhole and open the door.  
I feel tipsy.  
I pretty much collapse onto my couch, flat on my back and with my feet hanging over the arm. I unbutton my jeans and lay there with my shirt riding up my body. I lay there with my eyes closed for about a minute when I feel her fingers running up my bare skin towards my chest. I open my eyes to see her looming over me, still with that long wedge in her hand. She unfurls the plastic wrap and takes out the half in her right hand, and holds it over my mouth like she's going to shove it right in.  
“No, Maya—please,” I beg her, pushing back the half. “I can't handle another bite.”  
“Come on—you're hungry,” she insists in that breathy voice. “I can feel it. I can feel the hunger within you.”  
“I'm not, though. I swear to you. I've been eating all morning long.” I push down the waistband of my jeans and pull up my shirt. “Touch me. Touch my belly.”  
She sets the wedge down on the table next to the recliner, right next to the phone and the lamp, and then turns back to me.  
“I am touching you—” She rests her hands on me. Her touch is uncomfortable with everything she's fed me, but then she moves her hands up towards my chest. She brings her lips closer to mine, and for a second I think she's going to kiss me. But she never does.  
“I feel you—” she whispers into my face. “And I want to know what it means to love.”  
I nibble on my bottom lip. She's putting too much pressure on me, but she's on me. Her hands are caressing all over my chest.  
“You're so warm and so delicate—just, dare I say, skin and bones.”  
Right. She's one to talk. The one thing she ate today was that little bit of oyster crackers when I had that bowl of clam chowder. My stomach is still very flat but I feel like I've just swallowed the entirety of Lake Ontario.  
Maya leans in closer to my face.  
“Please—” I beg to her. “Please—”  
“With pleasure—” She puts her lips onto mine. She tastes like stale old bread and regret.  
“Wha—whaaaaat?” I'm so full, I can't even think straight.  
“Methinks the Injun doth speak too much,” she whispers into my mouth before kissing me again. I feel it within me.  
I let out the biggest, hairiest belch I've done in a long time right over the crown of her head.  
“Ohhhhhh, God damn,” I groan out. “I can't believe I ate that much.”  
“I've got you now,” she whispers to me. “I've got you around my finger.”  
“Wait, what?”  
She lifts herself off of my chest and straddles my hips like she's about to ride my dick. But she doesn't. Instead she gives me these light little kisses on my belly. Oh fuck, that feels good. After the pressure she just put on me, that's such a lovely sweet feeling.  
She's going down to my belly button and part of the way onto my happy trail, and then she rests her head on my lower belly. I feel like a pillow now. A fluffy soft pillow in a skinny boy's body.  
She kisses me right on the belly button and then she lifts herself up so as to look at me in the face.  
“Better eat that sandwich, big boy,” she whispers to me with a light tap on the tip of my nose. She then climbs off of me and rounds the end of the couch. I lay there staring up the ceiling, still feeling her lips on my skin and still tasting her. And then I realize she's not in here anymore.  
I stifle another little burp in my throat before hoisting myself up on my elbows. My back twitches but that's the least of my problems at the moment.  
“Maya?” I call out. Silence.  
“Maya? Where'd you go?”  
I swing my legs over from the arm of the couch and I sit upright, still with my shirt pulled up my belly and my pants unbuttoned. I strip off my jacket because I'm so warm.  
“Maya?” I call out again. Silence.  
I stand to my feet, albeit with a bit of difficulty because I'm still very full. Careful not to lose my balance, I head into the kitchen. She's not there.  
I look down the hall. Nothing.  
I take a peek into the bathroom. Empty.  
My bedroom? No one there.  
But the arrowhead pendant which I left on my nightstand is missing.  
She took the pendant.  
I have a hunch now.  
“Looks like I'm going to have to make a trip over to Boston,” I say aloud.


	8. (the man in black knows all)

November 24, 1988. Buffalo, New York.  
The moon is extra big and full tonight and that's very kind of her to do so, given there was a rather decent sized blizzard over the past two days and now the whole entirety of upstate is blanketed in a fine layer of pure white. I'm out here with my parents to spend Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle and my cousins, and now I'm bunking in the little twin bed in the upstairs guest bedroom. It always reminds me of all the times I'd come out here during the summer time when I was in school. I'm looking out the window at the moon and her big white full belly shining through the glass at me.  
Speaking of full bellies… stick a fork in me, I'm done. I can't believe I ate the whole thing. Again. Alas, this is Thanksgiving with the Bellardinis: we do it 'til our stomachs are distended and we have to curl up to take a nap or run around like a bunch of brats. Even with my shirt off, I'm as warm as I'll ever be right here without the blankets covering me.  
All that nice linguine with that decadent sauce with bits of sausage mixed in, all that lovely squash and zucchini with those tomatoes, that fresh baked bread straight out of the oven courtesy of my mom and my aunt…  
And then there was that tiramisu cake and that chocolate gelato. Oh. My God.  
I'm laying here in bed, flat on my back and my knees bent up from off of the mattress, with nothing more than my flannel bottoms because it's about ten degrees cooler in here than in the rest of the house and yet I'm willing to sleep with no shirt on. Come to think of it, I don't think they even changed the mattress because it's as bouncy as ever, if not more.  
Since I'm alone again, there's a part of me that wants to reach down my pants and touch myself but I've had a lot to eat tonight.  
Sadly, I haven't been able to eat that wedge Maya got for me the other day. Oh, well. Maybe when I get home and I'm absolutely starved beyond reason I can eat it. I still can't believe she stuffed me full like that. I also still can't believe she kissed me the way she did, either.  
I think back to what she said about me in the latest edition of After the Watershed. I think I'm just overreacting when I confess that I don't know how to feel about it. I'm sure of it: Maya means well. She likes me and I should just accept it. At least it's not the messy kind of attraction with Marcia.  
Or maybe it is. I don't know. There's still so much to Maya that I'm trying to uncover and it all feels like a vast ocean, more vast than the big feeling inside of me or the moon beams shining through the window to my right.  
I roll over onto my side once I hear the bedroom door down the hall close. My parents went to bed, which means I can now fall asleep for myself. I reach up to switch off the lamp and, once the room is engulfed in darkness, I reach down for the blankets. I nestle down in this twin bed, with my head buried in the soft pillow and part of my hair already falling over my face like a curtain. I pull up my knees a bit and cock out my hips in order to relax my stomach.  
I'm thinking of those little belly kisses she gave me after I laid down on the couch with my pants unbuttoned. There was something so weirdly intimate about those. Maybe it's because they were so far down, a mere inch over the belt. She was that close to either riding me or blowing me. As I'm laying here with my eyes closed, I've got one arm around my waist to touch myself there, right below my belly button.  
Yeah that was definitely it. Ugh. Good night.  
At some point, though, I wake up again because I'm so thirsty.  
And the moon has barely moved at all in the sky: the window is still brightly lit as if it's the day time. I lay there on my back, staring up at the pitch black sloped wooden ceiling overhead with some of my hair spead across my face. I still feel full but I need something to drink.  
I slide out from under the covers because I want them to stay warm when I come back. I risk it still with no shirt on as I'm heading out to the hallway.  
The stairwell still smells of bread and tomatoes as I'm making my way down to the kitchen for a glass of water. The whole house is dead silent as I walk through the dark dining room and the entrance of the kitchen. I click on the light and, after I blink several times, I look up at the clock on the wall above the fridge.  
How the hell is it only a quarter to one.  
I head for the cupboard for a clean glass and some of the water out of the fridge.  
A quarter to one. It's gonna be a long night.  
As I'm taking a drink of water, I'm still thinking about those belly kisses. I could use some more of those.  
I fill up the glass again with more water.  
I'm alone again, and I don't want to really risk it with everyone sleeping so near to me.  
I turn towards the entrance of the kitchen again when I swear I see something moving about in the dining room. Something black and cavernous.  
Oh, no.  
I don't have my dream catcher with me, either.  
Oh. Oh NO.  
I freeze right there on the spot when I feel the hair on my arms rise up on end. Chills run over the skin on my chest. I hold still right there as the figure makes its way towards the entrance of the kitchen. The bright lights over me cast over it so I can see it.  
But there's something else here. Tendrils of curly dark green hair floating past the shoulders and cradling a pallid, gaunt face. It's like the female version of myself with her willowy body wrapped in an oversized emerald green cloak and matching dress: the sleeves bag around her elbows which in turn emphasize her lanky arms, so lanky that they're sparse with flesh.  
And my grandmother thinks I need to gain weight: I'm chubby compared to this little lady.  
Her long boney fingers curl towards her chest as if protecting herself from me. Her hollow cavernous eyes gape back at me like the eye sockets of a skull.  
“You need me,” she whispers to me, her voice echoing over the walls and the linoleum as though she's a mile away.  
“I do?”  
“I'm the lady you need and fear. From the heart of the machine.”  
The folds in her dress seem to glow with a bright neon green light, much like the lights in the heart of downtown Seattle and the ones across the lake from Rochester. The green carries with it glimmers of blue and yellow; I catch the shape of the heads of bolts around her waist, as if her skirt had been fused to her body by mechanical means.  
“The machine?” I try to follow along; it's late and all I want to do is go back to bed. I don't want to think right now. “As in—robotics?”  
“Lonely boy,” she whispers to me, “darling lonely boy—tread carefully around the machine. Heed the warnings of the Man in Black.”  
I shift my weight at the very mention of the Man in Black. I swear, the goose pimples over my skin have goose pimples sprouting up it's so cold in here. The warm smell of dinner from earlier has gone away. Cold and sterile, like the inside of a machine.  
“Lady—” I whisper to her. “—is there a reason why?”  
The Lady in Green seems to float around me towards the sink and the dishwasher. Moving my feet just a mere few inches, I follow the sight of her while keeping in place right there on the linoleum.  
“The Man in Black,” she whispers to me, her knobbly fingers reaching out for me, “knows all—”  
Her fingertips caress my face, and the sides of my neck, and my collar bones. The waves of her hair flow back from her head as though it's windy in here. Her full lips, which have like a pale green gloss over that pure ghostly white, loom in closer to mine. I still have the glass of water in hand as she nears me, as if about to kiss me.  
“Heed—the warning,” she whispers again, “—of the Man in Black—”  
Her lips brush against mine before she vaporizes into wisps of light green followed by nothing. The chills are still spread over my skin as I'm alone in the kitchen once again.  
Without wasting another second, I head on out of there, switching off the lights right behind me.  
I hesitate there in the dining room with the glass of water still in hand so as to let my eyes adjust to the darkness again. Once they do, I continue on back upstairs to the room. I hear my dad snoring in the room down the hall as I duck through the doorway. I shut the door and make my way back to the bed using the bright light from the moon still shining through the window. I take another big gulp of water before setting the glass down on the nightstand and crawling back under the covers.  
I lay back onto my side and push my hair forward so it covers my face again once I've got my face in the pillow again.  
I close my eyes and fall back asleep.  
I wake up again, this time to an orange creamsicle colored sky and a heavy feeling underneath me.  
It takes me a minute to realize that heavy feeling is me.  
But I can't look down for examination of myself.  
I can only feel the increasing weight of my body dragging me down towards the earth as if I gained hundreds of pounds.  
I can hardly breathe. I'm like the center of the Sun, so heavy it's making me too hot.  
Then over my head, within the soft swirling orange collecting and changing colors from orange to red to pink to white right before my eyes, a feathery plume of jet black shoots out and takes the form of the Man in Black. His massive eyes gape back at me from his pale withered face. His hair drifts up from his head as if he's underwater. Oh God, what does he want.  
I catch the faces of Chris and Matt floating right behind him. They're like fleeting glimpses but they're there, looking on at me with worry before withering away into the pale orange.  
“The boy,” he shouts at me in a voice so loud it hurts my ears. “You—the boy—” He clutches onto my wrists—at least, I think they're my wrists. I open my mouth to say something but I can't. My hands are starting to ache me from him holding so tight.  
“The boy of water! The boy of water! THE BOY OF WATER!”  
WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN.  
“THE BOY OF WATER! THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE!”  
I shake myself awake to find myself back in the guest room again. It's still night as far as I can tell, except this time there's a bit of gray morning light shining through the window behind me. My hands are aching me, and then I realize I've had them shoved in between my thighs. They fell asleep.  
I roll over onto my back and then shake them about over the edge of the blankets to get the blood flowing again. I hold onto the blankets as I lay there, still as warm as ever.  
Just a dream. But I think about what the Lady in Green had told me.  
That didn't sound like a warning as much as it did just the Man in Black yelling at me.  
But the Man in Black terrifies me so much that anything he says should be serious business. Whatever it means, I should take it to heart when I make my trip over to Boston.  
I'm also thinking of returning to the Northwest because I think I can find some more answers up there. I'm sure of it.


	9. (nancy is so nice)

November 26, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
We stayed over in Buffalo for the next two days, including a trip into town on Black Friday, and then my parents and I returned home to Camillus. I stayed over for about an hour and then I decided it was time for me to drive on back home. I confessed I still had no idea what's up with Brick, and that is the truth. I really have no idea what's going on with him, and I haven't heard a word from Spence or either of the Greys about it for that matter.  
Once my mom gave me one last hug before I headed out the door, and she pressed her hand onto my stomach to feel me again no less, I climbed back into the hydrogen car Maya had left at my complex and drove back up to Oswego. I may be out on the job but I have my ways as I told her the other day.  
I've probably been home an hour when I head up the block to the House of Grey to check on Brick, Barney, and Billy, but the windows are dark. Damn it.  
I head on back to my place to call Spence to check on him.  
I take off my coat and lay it over the back of the couch once I'm inside of the apartment once again. Faint wisps from the back of Vera's dress drift back from her as she floats down the hall and vanishes into the darkness. For a second, I think I caught a glimpse of Nerissa near the entrance of my bedroom but it's just the shadow cast upon the door frame from the afternoon light. I sink down in my chair and pick up the phone.  
I dial Spence's number and it rings twice before I catch the machine.  
“Hey, Spence, it's Joey. Just wanna know how Brick's doing at the moment. Give me a call back when you get the chance. Love ya, man. Talk to you soon.”  
No sooner do I hang up the phone when I hear a knock on the door. I dart past the couch, and open the door, and I'm met with her little head of fine hair over a thick scarf and a heavy coat. She's got a plastic grocery bag in one hand.  
“Nancy!” I greet her. “What're you doing here?”  
“I have a week off for Thanksgiving,” she replies, “I go back on Monday, so Chris and I are taking the red eye tonight, and he dropped me off here real quick because I told him I wanted to speak to you. So I want to make this quick.”  
“Oh, yeah, sure. Come on in.” I step out of the way for her and she enters my apartment. I close the door behind her; I'm glad it's still relatively clean in here because it's so weird having a girl over here. “Uh—so what is it? What's up?”  
“It's… a couple of things, actually,” she starts, setting the bag on the back on the couch. “The first thing is—this.”  
She takes out a sheet of heavy paper protected by a clear sleeve and stretched over a board. She shows it to me: it's a watercolor painting of me, except the colors are bold and bright like that of Japanese block art; I'm seated at a counter, like the counter I was seated at in Junior's, that little cafe back in Portland she worked at, wrapped in my black coat and holding a coffee mug up to my mouth. I gasp at the sight of it.  
“This is like… an early Christmas present from me,” she explains. “I made this in two stints in my watercolor class when I had time at the end of each period. It's for being such a sweetie.”  
“Oh, thank you! You're too kind.” I put my arms around her and she rests the side of her head against my chest. It's like hugging my mom except Nancy's got more weight to her body. She steps back to look at me in the eye with a warm little smile on her face.  
“The other thing I want to say is Lars is doing a lot better,” she starts again, much to my relief; “you know, he was released yesterday and he took the first flight back to Portland.”  
“Portland? Not San Francisco?” I think back to what Maya had told me about his wife and the fact he's been here upstate so many times.  
“Yeah.” I let go of her and she adjusts the lapels of her coat. “I guess he was flown back there because he told me and Chris that he had a ticket waiting for him. He told me to tell you that he's got a new insight on that girl you found, Maya.”  
That copy of After the Watershed. He probably took it with him.  
“Did he expand on it?”  
“Not really,” she confesses, “like he had a weird dream about her while he was comatose one day. And then he found a copy of some magazine laying on his chest and he read some of it. I guess it was written by her but on the back cover, it said 'for Joey's eyes only' and so he left it on the side table next to him. When he looked again, it was gone.”  
Or not.  
“What does he think it could be?” I ask her.  
“I don't know, he didn't say. He just wants to talk to you when and if he gets a chance, and also when you get the chance.”  
“And what else did he say?”  
“Two sisters—Marcia and Sonia, he said their names are?”  
“Oh, yeah! Marcia and Sonia Bennett—a couple of Portland girls out in Rochester.”  
“I guess they're flying back to Portland soon for Christmas and they wanna have lunch with the two of you there.”  
“I think I should also tell Lars that I want to make a trip over to Boston at some point,” I confess.  
“Why Boston?”  
“Maya's family's there. I think if we sleuth around there we'll uncover some more things about her.”  
“That's what he told me in what he saw in his dream. Like he saw her family surrounded by a bunch of gears and divets and things. The kind of mechanical stuff we saw in New York City. I'm sure he'll expand on it when you guys meet up again.” She picks up the plastic bag from the back of the couch and takes out a pair of candy canes.  
“Also these are from Chris and Kim,” she tells me.  
“Once again, too kind,” I reply to her, taking the candies with my free hand; I've got the painting tucked underneath my arm. “I'll find a spot for this painting, too.”  
“One last thing before I forget,” she continues, “because you mentioned Boston, Matt and Dominique are actually heading out there—in a couple of nights, I think. It's like she's on assignment with her mentor, Angeline, again, but this time at this little stationary place near the women's school, and Matt's gonna be hanging out there somewhere. You guys can hit it up there if you'd like.”  
“Sounds excellent. I'll let Lars rest for a bit and then I'll mosey on over to the City of Roses again.”  
She grins at me.  
“You really are a sweet guy,” she remarks, pushing a strand of hair out of her face and another one behind her ear, “and yeah. You do remind me of Chris a lot, too.”  
I feel my face grow warm at that.  
“You said you were taking the red eye back to Seattle?” I recall.  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, it's still kinda early. You guys wanna grab a coffee before you head on back?”  
“Oh—” She closes her eyes and bows her head as the warm smile persists upon her face. “Oh, that's just—you're as sweet as you are cute and handsome.”  
My face grows even warmer as a result.  
“Well—I dunno 'bout that,” I shrug at her.  
“But that's still—just so sweet. But I'm afraid I gotta go, though. I will do this—”  
She steps closer to me and, standing on her toes, rises up to my face for a little peck. Her lips are soft and smooth, and the warm combined aroma of chocolate and cinnamon fills my nose. I flutter my eyelashes at her when I feel my eyebrows raise up.  
“What was that for?” I sputter out.  
“It's all I can do,” she confesses with a shrug. “Believe me, Joey—if I wasn't already in a relationship, I'd want you to be my boyfriend so much. Nancy Kensington dating Joey Belladonna.” She winks at me before heading on out the door. “Anyways, I'll catch you later—”  
She closes the door behind her, leaving me there in my own apartment with the candy canes in one hand, the painting tucked under the other arm, and my head feeling as hot as though it's the summer time and my stomach filled with butterflies.  
“Okay, time to pick out a place on my wall for this thing,” I mutter to myself, glancing down at the painting under my arm.


	10. (joe the drummer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Coin operated boy,  
> He may not be real, experienced with girls  
> but I know he feels like a boy should feel   
> Isn’t that the point? That is why i want a   
> Coin operated boy,  
> With his pretty coin operated voice   
> saying that he loves me, that he's thinking of me   
> Straight and to the point, that is why I want   
> A coin operated boy.”  
> -“Coin Operated Boy”, The Dresden Dolls

November 28, 1988. Boston, Massachusetts.  
So I had left Oswego at about ten this morning because I didn't know if or when Matt and Dominique were going to be in Boston today, but I have this hydrogen car that Maya left behind and I have nothing more to do than to take it for myself. I had the copy of Ultramega OK in the disc player for the first stint of the trip: as I drove through Syracuse, their cover of “Smokestack Lightning” came on, and I couldn't help but think of Ellen and seeing Brick in the hospital. It felt like a sign, seeing the chimneys in the outskirts with their rising smoke against the bitter upstate cold.  
I've done this drive before by myself and with my parents and my grandparents, but this time it was interesting because not one time did I have to stop to refuel because of the hydrogen. There was that one time Maya stopped on the way back up, but that was it. The whole thing throws me because I always think it's going to run low at some point and it never does. To be honest, I'm surprised this car doesn't have an autopilot option because sometime around Albany, I wanted to put my feet up on the dashboard next to me and relax for a moment before I resumed onward to Springfield and then eventually to Boston. I played Ultramega again once I entered Massachusetts, where more and more the brick and mortar began to rise up from the cold earth and the outskirts of the City.  
She said they're going to be near the women's college, and the only one I can think of offhand, just from my doing gigs over here with Anthrax and a couple of my past cover bands, is to the north of the heart of the city itself.  
I take the next exit leading me over to Wellesley, and this is the part of town that, along with New York City, makes me wonder if Maxwell Industries in Seattle is serious about their wanting to move out this way. Over the edge of the freeway, I can make out the small cobblestones comprising the streets down below: every other building is made of stone and brick, and has a chimney bleeding out plumes of pure white steam. The sky is pure white with the sun reflecting on the steam, and so I'm driving about with my mirrors on and my scarf around my neck like I'm a pilot. I even have the black gloves and the black boots.  
Everything is made of brick and mortar and cold metal: not a lick of bright blue neon to be found. There's a row of shiny silver entities floating in the air over my head, but they're too small to be considered airships. At least I think so anyways. They seem to drift onward over me and across the freeway to the other side within a mile of my next exit. Something about them is unnerving, like what are they?  
I'm soon winding my way through the tightly woven web of spirals that is Wellesley and I indeed recognize the school up the street and past the four roundabouts.  
Oh boy, this is going to be fun!  
Trying not to wreck the car, seeing as this isn't even mine and I just don't want to wreck the damn thing, I begin to weave my way through the roundabouts like it's a snake. I really am like a pilot now because I'm having to keep this thing in control. The hydrogen hum is totally silent but the tires are yelling at me over the cobblestones.  
Surprised there are no passersby on the sidewalks. It's the middle of the day following Thanksgiving: usually I would expect the whole area would be filled to the brim with hustle and bustle like Syracuse or Albany—Oswego had more happening when I left this morning. But no: there's no one here.  
I weave one last time around the fourth and final roundabout and I catch the view of the stationary shop in question: this little pale brick building with a bright pink and white striped awning over the gilded glass. I know that's what it is because I recognize Dominique and her heavy black overcoat and purple tinted glasses standing next to Matt and another woman.  
I don't realize where I'm going and I almost drive right into the narrow alleyway running adjacent to the place.  
I slam on the brakes. I turn the wheel around so as to avoid hitting anything.  
And the car drifts up to the curb.  
I stop right there right before them, and Matt pushing the two women back away from the edge of the sidewalk so as to miss me. He then recognizes me with a nod.  
“Oh, hey! It's Joey!” I hear Dominique declare through the windshield.  
I switch the thing off and stumble out of the car to meet up with them. The steam in the air makes everything feel cold and the whole place smells sweet, like cooking molasses. I toss back my black curls and adjust the shades before meeting up with them.  
“Quite the entrance if I might say so myself,” Matt remarks with a big beaming grin underneath his big smokey sunglasses.  
“Joey, this is my mentor Angeline Belotti from the New York Times,” Dominique introduces me to the blonde lady in a lush dark red velvet dress with a low plunging neckline and a big matching handbag in her left hand. She's got on these little cream colored leather gloves protecting her hands from the bitter cold around us.  
“Joey Belladonna, right?” she asks me in that strong Queens accent that makes me think of Anthrax.  
“Yes'm.”  
“I thought I recognized you. That little upstate indigenous boy that Anthrax fired for—reasons I haven't been able to find out.”  
I shrug at that. Yeah, me, too, and the thousands of other fans who are left wondering.  
“Anyways, I'm glad you could make it, Joey,” she continues, “Matt and Dominique were just telling me about a young lady named Maya Sorensen whom you found last month in a gutter.”  
“Yeah, I was just walking and I saw her laying there on the sidewalk all disoriented and helpless.”  
“He was just being a good guy, y'know?” Dominique fills in for me.  
“Well, of course. But what I don't understand is why didn't you take her to the authorities and earn credit that way?”  
I flash back on what she said in After the Watershed: her fear of being discovered by someone who wanted to hurt her. Come to think of it, that's actually quite the bullet I dodged myself, too.  
“She told me not to,” I reply to her.  
“She told you not to?” Angeline repeats it.  
“See, I thought there was more to this,” Dominique says, her eyes lighting up behind the purple lenses. “I thought you and I would be in for hell of a scoop, Angeline.”  
“Well, anyways, she and I were going to do some writing practice here in this shop next to us,” Angeline explains to me, “and we were hoping you'd show up because Matt's got nothing better to do at the moment.”  
“Yeah, today's my birthday,” he says out of the blue. “I'm twenty six.”  
“Oh, really? Happy birthday, man.”  
“There's a pub right back here if you guys want a bite to eat,” Angeline gestures behind me to the sidewalk running around the corner of the shop.  
“Yeah, we're gonna be in here a while,” Dominique adds.  
“I haven't eaten since I left Oswego,” I confess.  
“All the better,” Matt assures me. “C'mon, man—”  
He leads me away from there and we turn the corner to the narrow alleyway I almost plowed into. This little passage way smells more of molasses even with the piles of rusty wires and the shiny silver air conditioners resting upon the ground.  
“Dom and I got one of these,” he starts, gesturing to the air conditioner closest to the other end of the alley.  
“These exact ones?” I ask him as the bright white glare of the sun shines over his blond hair like it's a vein of pure gold.  
“Exact one. For some reason, the cybernetic ones Maxwell Industries makes don't work as well as they should. Here we are—”  
He holds the door for me and I step into the cozy, intimately lit pub of dark wood and wire framed lamps first. The place smells of French fries and honey. Once I take off my sunglasses, I catch a glimpse of a little plaque on the wall next to us.  
“'Open mic night,'” I read aloud.  
“Huh?” He takes off his sunglasses once the door closes behind him.  
“It's open mic night.” I grin at him as I lead him into the main room of the pub.  
“Oh, no, you aren't suggesting—”  
“I am, and—hey! Check it out! There's a full on drum kit in here!”  
“Oh, man.”  
“Come on, dude. I'm out on the job and I'm pretty much a trash digger at this point. Sometimes a guy's gotta drum his heart out, y'know?” And then he bursts out laughing.  
“I hear that!”  
We take a seat at the big heavy dark polished wooden bar dotted by single beeswax candles held up by fancy iron catches. He asks for a glass of stout, and I for a glass of straight up root beer. Too much bad karma with sarsaparilla now. He takes a sip from his glass when I sit back in the stool with my legs crossed. A few more people enter the place behind us, followed by an elderly couple.  
“Been meaning to ask you this, too,” he starts, “—what do you think of our album?”  
“Ultramega?”  
“Yeah.”  
“It's all so—grungely,” I tell him, and he bursts out laughing at that. “Grungely and totally badass.” He picks up his glass again for another swig of stout and then takes a look over at me with a lick of his lips. I raise a glass to him and we clink them together at the edges. He asks for a refill when I ask for some battered cod and a little dish of tartar sauce.  
The candles seem brighter than they were when we came in. More and more people are coming in behind us, and soon the pub is bustling with people.  
I turn my head to the window on the other side of the room, at the growing shadows casting across the floor and the drum kit with the waning light. A girl with a guitar steps up onto the stage.  
“Any volunteers to play rhythm section with me?” she asks into the microphone over the drum kit. I turn to Matt as he's downing the rest of his stout.  
“That drum kit over there's freed up,” I point out to him.  
“I dunno if I can play, though,” he admits. “I can be—kinda unsure of myself when—hic, 'scuse me—I've taken down a couple of drinks.”  
I think back to the first time I played Ultramega OK on my player, and the other times I played it, including this morning.  
“You know, I really like you guys' cover of 'Smokestack Lightning',” I tell him.  
He swallows, but doesn't reply. I glance up at the drum kit once again. All the times I played in cover bands are returning to me.  
Oh. Oh, okay. I'm gonna be Phil Collins now. I take one final sip of the root beer and wolf down the last bite of fish before striding on over to her to join her.  
She welcomes me by telling me she's not the best singer. I concede as I take a seat on the stool behind the snare and the bass. It's a small kit, one that I'm definitely used to. I tell her what song I want to play and her face lights up; and then there's that microphone next to my head.  
“Hi, my name's Joe Belladonna. I'm the singer as well as the drummer for tonight. Just call me Joe the drummer.”  
I'm a little rusty, especially since Matt's got such an interesting way of playing but I do know it. I'm also doing the duty of singing like Chris.  
Nancy says I'm like Chris. Well, tonight I'm gonna be Chris as well as Matt, playing this old blues song in a dark steamy town that smells of molasses.  
There's just one difference: my screams don't go as nearly high as Chris, and I'm a tenor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! when Soundgarden was starting out (i.e., before Sun King and Matt showed up), Chris was pulling double duties (singing and drumming) himself. Go figure, right?


	11. ("i used to make out with medusa")

November 28, 1988. Wellesley, Massachusetts.  
“Wow—mmm, you're better than me.”  
“Well, I dunno 'bout that.”  
It's after sundown here on the edge of Boston, and the sky is still that pure white with the reflection of the sun on the steam. Meanwhile, Matt and I are still here in this pub: I'm pretty sure he's hammered because he keeps giggling every five seconds even though I haven't said a word. I've had to run into the bathroom twice now because of the root beer, but otherwise I'm the sober one here. Reminds me of when Lars got kind of tipsy back in the City. I put my arm around Matt to ensure that he doesn't fall out of his chair and onto the hard floor. He bows his head towards my shoulder with his golden blond hair spreading over the front of my shirt: I had taken off my coat and my gloves after I climbed out from behind the drum kit, and set them down on the bar in front of me, right in the same spot I had my fish.  
“You aren't gonna barf, are ya?” I ask him in a loud enough voice for him to hear me over the crowd around us.  
“Nah—” he sputters. He hesitates, and I think he stifled a burp there.  
“Well, tell me if and when you get a hankering for upchucking, 'kay?” I tell him.  
“Yeah—” He bursts out laughing. “I drank so much stout!”  
“It wasn't that much,” I assure him. “At least not when I was sitting here with you.”  
“I had—another refill, but—” He pauses again. “—I—I—” He rolls his head over so I can see the side of his face pressed against my chest, and he opens his mouth again, this time for the tip of his tongue to spill out like a dog. He spits out some hair and gives me this hysterical giggle.  
I sigh at the sound of it.  
The least I can do is stay with him until he's able to stand on his two feet. Unless he can stand on his own two feet and he's just being a silly drunk at the moment. I turn my head to the right when I hear a sound that sounds like someone calling my name. No one behind me, just an empty space on the honey colored floor there next to the stools. I return to Matt as he's struggling to push some of his hair out of his face.  
I help him out with that when I hear the woman's voice again.  
“Joey?” I turn my head again to see the kinky curls of black hair weaving her way through the crowd.  
“Dominique!” I call out, and return to Matt for a brief second. “Your lady's here.”  
“Cool—” he stammers. She hovers over me, her gloved hand right above my shoulder. I eye her fingers and, about an inch away from them, the crotch of her jeans. Her boyfriend has had one too many and I drummed almost just like him not too long ago. She knits her eyebrows together and scoffs at me.  
“What happened here?”  
“He had a little fun with the stout stuff,” I confess, and he laughs again. “It wasn't my doing—I swear.”  
“Well, I was just gonna ask if either of you fellas wants to join Angeline and me for a bite of dinner, but I think it's a bit too late for that.  
“Besides, uh—no, thank you, anyways—I'm stuffed.” I set a hand on my stomach.  
She sniffs the side of my head.  
“Yeah, you smell like French fries.”  
“Eh, close. It was more fish than anything.”  
“You're not drunk?”  
“I had root beer.”  
“I see.”  
“Where is Angeline, by the way?”  
“The other side of the room.” She gestures back towards the entrance and the sign reading “open mic night.”  
“Hey—Hey—Hey—” Matt sputters out, wagging his finger at us. He rolls his head up towards me again, never taking the side off of my shoulder.  
“What?” she asks him.  
“Yeah, what's up?”  
He stifles another belch in his throat.  
“I forget.” He bursts out laughing again; I turn back to her as she's rolling her eyes and snickering at him.  
“She wants to talk to you, by the way,” she says. “That's part of why I came over here, aside from telling you that Angeline wants us to take us out.”  
“Who, me?”  
“Yeah.”  
“About what?”  
“Not sure, she didn't say. But yeah—she told me distinctly 'I want to have a word with Joey.'”  
“Alright.” I glance back at Matt again, right as he's yawning and closing his eyes at the sight of us. “What about him, though?”  
“Don't worry 'bout him. I got him.”  
She takes a seat in the other stool to the left of him so as to tug him off of me. I fix my shirt before standing up. I take one last sip from the root beer on the bar before heading over to the other side of the room to meet up with Angeline. I duck into the front lobby to find her lingering near the doorway with her handbag dangling off of her wrist. She's digging around on the inside of the bag for something.  
“Angeline?” I call her, and she lifts her head for a look at me. Her face lights up at the sight of me.  
“Oh, hey!”  
“You wanted to speak to me?” I approach even closer to her so she can hear me.  
“Um, yes. This isn't about Anthrax, even though I interviewed Scott and Dan just the other day. I asked them about you and they said they're not sure where to go from here with John.”  
“Really?” I'm stunned by that.  
“Yeah. Dan said they're considering and recalculating everything as it stands, and even though they seem pretty dead set on John, they're not ruling you out.”  
“Wow. Because I was told I was done.”  
“That's what Scott said, too. But—you know the whole thing about being in a band. Things and circumstances happen that bring about changes of heart on a regular basis.”  
“Right.”  
“Anyways, I wanted to speak to you about—what happened in here not too long ago.”  
“What, my drumming?”  
“Yes.” Her face lights up and her eyes gleam at me. “Dominique and I heard you playing outside in the alleyway, and I totally forgot how much your voice just fills out a whole room. So I want to know if you're planning on doing stuff of your own, because I would love to write about it in the future.”  
“Well, right now—at the moment—I have some songs written down, back home—but I'm still trying to get the feel of them, you know? Like I don't know if I'll sing and drum, or if I'll just sing to them.”  
“Oh, okay.” She gives her blonde hair a little toss back from her face. “So they're definitely gonna be Joey Belladonna songs?”  
“Absolutely. Unless—either of the dudes from Anthrax wanna jam with me in the future?”  
“I don't know—Scott told me he's going through kind of a difficult time right now, relationship wise, and it's really helping him out with writing their new album. Who knows really, because I've found, from my experience in writing and doing journalism work with bands and musicians, you can interview someone and you'll never hear the same story twice all the way.”  
“Right—and I used to make out with Medusa, too,” I joke to her, and that coaxes a laugh out of her.  
“I also want to ask you about Maya. The writer, Maya Sorensen. You know she's been missing, right?”  
“That's what I've found, yeah.” I step out of the way of a young woman in a black overcoat and thigh high leather boots walking towards the bar.  
“I thought the name sounded familiar when Dominique first brought it up to me. Like I've seen her name pop up in magazine publications and whatnot. I tried to get an interview with her because she had such an anti authoritarian attitude to life, like it reminded me of the punk bands in New York City, but I never could get her. And yes—her family is here in Boston, not too far from this pub and the school actually. The problem with that, though—”  
“Trespassing?”  
“Well, yes, but also—I guess her father, her foster father is a bit of a curmudgeon.”  
I think about the curmudgeon down the block from Brick's house.  
“How so?”  
“He's one of those people who—do you ever come across someone so fixated on what they're doing that the slightest of interruptions is like setting off a bomb?”  
“—yes?”  
“That's what he's like. Going to their house for anything, much less an interview with me, a reporter, is a sure fire to get yourself killed.”  
“What does he do again?” I ask her, trying to recall what Molly had told Lars and me in New Orleans.  
“He's a business man, albeit a rather wealthy one. He helped build most of the real industrial side of Boston here.”  
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows at that as I fold my arms over my chest.  
“In fact, he introduced some of the—he calls them 'drones', you might have seen them either here, or in New York City, or in Seattle. They're like these chrome miniature airships about the size of a sofa.”  
“I think I have,” I admit to her, “like I saw them flying over the freeway, coming over here.”  
“Named such because they make this quiet drone that's rumored to drive a person to the brink of paranoia because it's on the threshold of human hearing.”  
“Well, why's he making them if they do that?”  
“They're prototypes. At least, that's according to what he has said publicly. I've seen them in Queens, in Manhattan, and over Staten Island, and yeah—they are kind of creepy looking, especially at night because they look like airplanes but they're not. But I guess it's to help out with things like photography and watching traffic. That's why he introduced them to New York City first because of all the traffic they get down there.”  
“Have you actually interviewed him?”  
“I haven't, no. I have interviewed her sister, though. Her sister, Candace.”  
“And I assume Candace has said everything is peachy at home?” I'm thinking back to what Molly said.  
“Actually according to her, life here in Boston has been anything but peachy.”  
“Oh, really?”  
“Yeah. According to her, their home life was kind of lonely. Like it was just the two of them, they had to look out for each other.”  
“That's not what her mom told me.”  
“You interviewed her mom?” She raises her eyebrows at me.  
“Foster mom. Molly. I wouldn't say 'interviewed' like you did with Scott and Danny, but yeah—I have spoken to her. Me and Lars both spoke to her in her home in New Orleans, and she told us some things about life here in Boston. How they've pretty much been treated well here at home.”  
Angeline frowns at that.  
“That's… not what I heard. Candace told me that she and Maya had to pretty much fend for themselves growing up, like after Maya was brought home.”  
She opens her handbag again, this time for a little black book and a pen.  
“What'cha lookin' for?” I ask her.  
“I guess I'm going to have to arrange an interview with Michael Morlente because something here doesn't add up. All of this is stumping me.”  
“You're telling me. If there's one thing that's stumping the hell out of me about her it's this tidbit about knowing where to find her. She told me that the other night while we were in New York City.”  
“You know where to find her?”  
“That's what she told me, yeah. It's almost like she's trying to hide things about herself from me, even though she wants to come closer to me.”  
“Interesting. But anyway, I'll see if I can do a phone interview with him because I don't know any other way around it.”  
Matt's voice floats in from behind me. I peer over my shoulder to see Dominique cradling him in one arm and holding my jacket over the other.  
“Terrible idea,” she cracks.  
“We can go by their house, though,” Angeline assures me as she scribbles something down in the little black leather bound book. “Like just to get an idea of it and everything, y'know?”  
“Oh, yeah, sure.”  
Dominique hands me my coat and the gloves, which I presume she tucked into the pocket because I didn't do it, and I slip them on for this chilly late autumnal evening. Angeline tucks her book and her pen back into her handbag before leading us outside: Matt staggers about the sidewalk as we return to the alleyway with the air conditioners and then back to the street to the car I borrowed from Maya and Angeline's car. I take the key out of my coat pocket right before the driver's side door.  
“Besides, I need to take this car back to Maya,” I tell her in a low voice as Matt and Dominique wobble past us.  
“This is her car?” she asks me.  
“Yeah. I think it's just a rental, but she drove me home in this and then she left it at my place.” I stop, and then I turn my head to her.  
“Wait a minute,” I begin again, looking on at my reflection in the dark window. “Angeline, are you thinking what I'm thinking?”  
“I think so,” she confesses. “But just as a reassurance, tell me.”  
You know where to find me, Maya told me. I do.  
“I think I know a way into their house—and not in the way that'll get either of us killed.”  
“Hang on a second,” she tells me off, and rushes up to Dominique for a word. I'm sure of it. This is how I'll uncover the next secret about Maya.  
Soon, Angeline returns to me, slinging her handbag over her shoulder.  
“I gave her the key to my car,” she tells me, “like she and Matt will go to a park so he can rest and then you and I can—do whatever it is that you have in mind with the house.”  
“It's a deal,” I flash her a wink and then the hydrogen hum within the car fires up in front of me as a result.


	12. (the parents are not amused)

November 28, 1988. Boston, Massachusetts. “So this is the place?” I ask her. “This is it. Pretty posh, isn't it?” “God damn, I feel so poor just looking at it.” We're sitting at the curb right outside of this big three story house in the suburban part of Boston. I killed the engine and now we're sitting here in silence: there are rich amber lights lighting up the windows on the second and third levels, and the whole house itself is comprised of pale, cleanly scrubbed brick. The pointed roof of a turret shoots up from behind the dark main roof and I can make out the faint glimmer of a witching window—one of those windows tipped over at an angle—embedded underneath the gutter facing the street. The front lawn is groomed even with winter encroaching upon us. There's a cobblestone walkway winding up towards the front step, through the still present sprouts of green grass and weaving around the neatly groomed evergreen bushes: right outside of her door stands a low white picket fence with a rickety looking gate which I'm sure locks on the inside. A large oak tree in the front yard looms within a few feet of the windows of the bottom floor. Meanwhile, the sun has gone down, leaving the sky painted a rich navy blue color without any sign of stars to be seen. At least the glare is gone now. Angeline tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear before turning to me. “Okay, so run the plan by me again?” “This is Maya's car,” I tell her, patting the edge of the steering wheel. "Right.” "She returned here to the house. I'm sure of it. So what'll happen is you'll go up to the front door and tell her or whoever answers that you're from the New York Times, and you've found her car, and you're bringing it back to her.” “Okay. But that leaves us without transportation, though.” “Not necessarily. See, you said Dominique and Matt are in a park back over in Wellesley?” “Yes.” “I know a way back there without breaking our feet. While you're there at the door, I'll sneak around the side of the house and see if I can find Maya. She's comfortable around me—I'll speak to her and I'll see if she fesses up to me the full truth. Think you're up for it?” “I think so… but how are you going to sneak around back?” “Those bushes you see in the yard here.” “What if someone catches you?” “Angeline, I'm part Iroquois Indian. I guess you could say I'm—more or less used to the earth and besides, it's getting dark. I doubt anyone's gonna see me. So what do you say?” She sighs through her nose and turns back around to look out the window and then the windshield. “It's either this or a phone interview,” she says in a soft voice. "And I'd think the latter is gonna quite difficult,” I point out to her. I know she's nervous: I am, too. The butterflies in my stomach are a sure sign that I don't know how this is going to play out. But it's worth a shot if we're going to find out the truth of Maya. She then nods her head. “Okay,” she finally says. “Let's do it.” I raise my pinky finger, the one with my silver ring on it, for her to hook hers around. She locks for a second and then climbs out of the car. I follow suit right as a light gust of a sea breeze blows through my hair. “This street smells like potatoes,” I remark, looking around the place. “Most of the streets in this part of town in fact do,” she assures me. “No idea why, either.” I round the front of the car and, once I reach the curb, I bow my head to stay out of sight behind the fence. Angeline reaches behind the top of the gate to release the lock: once it's open, I duck behind the nearest bush right in the middle of the yard. I linger there as she steps ahead towards the front step. I close my eyes for a few seconds as I hear the heels of her boots clanking on the cobblestones. I try to steady my breathing but I'm shaking, I'm absolutely shaking. I hear her footsteps halt right on the front step and I make a run for it, keeping myself low to the ground all the way to the side of the house. I don't hear her knock on the door. I'm in a full on sprint to the side of the house. The soles of my boots are aching me. It's times like this I wish I had on my Chucks. Once I'm there, I lean against the corner and open my mouth wide to let out a sigh of relief. God. I can't remember the last time I was this nervous. Actually, yeah, I can. It was the first time I ever recorded with Anthrax. Recording “A.I.R.” I think. Never mind, it's not important at the moment. I hear the doorbell ring, one that sounds like those big wooden wind chimes the size of dinner plates. I open my mouth to let out a breath, one as quiet as I can make it. I close my eyes as I press myself as far as I can go right up against the wall. “I don't think they're even home, Joey—” But before she can say my name, the front door opens. I hold perfectly still as chills run my spine. “Yes?” I know that whispered voice laced with that British accent anywhere. “Um—are you—Maya?” Angeline asks her. “Yes.” “Um—I found your car in New York and I found out it belongs to you—I work with the New York Times, so it was easy to find you here in Boston—are—your parents home?” “My father's home,” she answers as I turn my head to the left to find the other edge of the house. I nibble on my bottom lip when I hear her say the word “father.” This might be where I meet him. “Okay. I was just curious—” Without another sound, I make my way down this thin patch of grass, still keeping my head bowed low so as to stay down in the shadows. It's quite a venture to the back of the house. But once I reach that corner, I take a glimpse around the corner to see if there's a back door. There is in fact a slit on the wall right in front of my face, but I don't know if it's a door. There's also a door on the outside of the turret. I peer over my shoulder to make sure there's no one behind me first, and then proceed on to the turret. Thing is I don't know if it's locked or not. I set a hand on the doorknob and hesitate. Silence on the other side. I turn the knob so slowly because I don't want to cause a racket. It's not locked. I push it open to the smallest crack to where I can still look inside of the back of the house. I can only see a lush scarlet carpet on the other side. Silence, which means they're either still at the front door or there's something waiting for me on the other side.  
But I push the door open a little more so as to take a peek inside. I lift my gaze to the ceiling and a void. I push it open even more to find the void over my head is nothing more than the view into the spiral staircase leading up into the turret. I turn my head to the warmly lit corridor to the left of me. No one there, but if I hold my breath and pay close attention to the silence, I can hear Maya's voice on the other side, like a delicate whisper on the wind.  
I think it's safe to come inside so I put my left foot in first, followed by my right.  
There's a little clink sound right behind me that catches me offguard.  
Oh. It's nothing more than my pinky ring on the doorknob.  
Christ, I need to calm down.  
Careful not to make any more noise, I close the door behind me.  
And that's when I hear something in front of me shuffle from behind the stairs. I gasp and lurch back to the door.  
“Can I help you, son?” a gruff voice asks me. I stop and look over my shoulder to see an older man with a slicked back pompadour of hair that's the color of rust, glassy eyes that seem to sink back into his skull, a straight nose, a cupid's bow in his lips, and a little indentation in his chin. He's tall, quite a bit taller than me, and a hell of a lot heavier than me: he's wrapped in a shiny white coat. Odd for a house coat because it looks like it's made of vinyl. He's got these bright orange rubber gloves on his hands. He looks like a scientist, but for all I know, he might've been doing dishes just now.  
“Uh—” I feel my throat close and my stomach turn. Fuck, what do I do.  
“Yes?”  
“Uh—I was just—wondering—if—Maya was home?” That's the first thing that came to mind.  
“Maya? Yeah, she's at the front of the house right now.” He speaks with a soft voice and with a clear American accent; I notice the black framed glasses folded at the collar of his coat. “May I ask how you know my daughter?”  
“I'm a—uh, friend of hers.” Immediately regret saying that.  
“Well, why'd you come in the back? You could've come in through the front door. You didn't have to sneak in this way.”  
“I just—felt like it.” What the hell am I saying. Shut up, Joey.  
But to my surprise at that, he chuckles in response to that.  
“You just felt like it? I like that. Really, I like your attitude.” He keeps chuckling and I relax the muscles in my stomach, which I find were totally tense up to that point. I adjust the lapels of my coat and push some stray curly tendrils of my hair back from my shoulders.  
“Relax, son, we're all family here,” he assures me, cracking me a smile.  
“—yes, I have a room back here,” that soft voice flies into the corridor, and Maya enters in from the far end of the corridor to my left. She gasps at the sight of me.  
“Joey?” she calls out to me in a delicate whisper.  
“Maya,” I reply to her, and like a baby horse, she ambles over to me. She still has no color to her face and the scar on her forehead is as prominent and bright as ever. Angeline appears from behind her with a befuddled look on her face. I nod at her and she shrugs at me. Maya puts her arms around me, tighter than her grip has ever been towards me.  
“Joey? Is that your name?” the man asks me.  
“Yeah. And that's—” I gesture down the corridor, and he directs his attention there. He wags a finger at her.  
“Angeline, right?”  
“—yeah.” I'm just as confused as her.  
“I thought I recognized you.” He shows her a big beaming smile; meanwhile, Maya lifts her head from my chest to return to the man. “Where are my manners, I'm Mike.” He extends his gloved hand for me to take and we shake: on the inside of the rubber, his fingers are hard and narrow, and knobby at the knuckles. His grip is a little too strong but for all I know, it could be because I was an intruder in the house. He wasn't expecting me after all; so there's a part of me that's glad he's got those gloves on.  
“Papa, should we invite Joey and Angeline to dinner?” Maya asks him.  
“I don't see why not. A friend of yours is a friend to me. They can meet Molly after all, too, honey pie.” He lifts his gaze to the two of us. “Speaking of which, dinner will be ready in a few minutes. The smart kitchen just has to make a few finishing touches.”  
“Smart kitchen?” Angeline repeats as she approaches me.  
“Robotic kitchen. I crafted it out myself and programmed it to make dinner and dessert.”  
“Well, that's… nifty.” I try to show a smile but I can't really shake the fact I was that close to having my ass handed to me on a silver robotic platter myself.  
“It really is! Come dine with us for the evening.” He gestures for us to follow him and Maya down the corridor. Meanwhile, Angeline comes closer to me and I breathe another sigh of relief.  
“Man, that was close,” I confess to her. “I thought he was gonna release the hounds on me.”  
“Pfff, you're telling me. I thought Maya was going to have a stroke when I told her you were involved in finding her car in New York City.”  
“What the hell's going on?” I ask her in a whisper.  
“I have no idea. No idea at all.”  
“I thought you said he's a curmudgeon.”  
“He was. Full on. When I tried to interview him that one time, he was very rude. Like he refused in the worst way you could think of. So you know—this is weird.”  
“Maya looks like she's about ready to go into an anemic coma, too,” I admit. “I really hope she eats something.”  
“We should do something,” she suggests.  
“Joey? Angeline? Are you guys coming?” Mike hollers from down the hall.  
“We are!” she exclaims with a tilt of her head, and then she returns to me.  
“Again, we should do something.”  
“Well, what should we do?” I demand to her in a hushed voice.  
“I don't know—duck out the back door here and make a run for it.”  
“In these boots? I don't think so.”  
“You snuck across the yard in those things—you don't think you can run?”  
“Sneaking and running are two completely different things, 'kay?”  
“Oh, and you also said you wanted to look for something in here, too,” she recalls with a gesture to me.  
“Yeah, I do. Well, let's—make the case for them. I'm not really hungry after all that fish and root beer in the pub, but let's do it.”  
“Yeah, let's give these people a chance. Maya does like you after all.”  
“Mike also didn't kill me, either.”  
We double back down the hall to the other side: on the way, we catch a view into the spacious, clean kitchen with a white linoleum floor and pure white tiles all over the splash backs under the cabinets. There's no one in there, but I do see a bright blue light on the light over the faucet. I also spot an odd feather shaped thing on the front cabinet underneath the sink, and I think of Brick. Oh, my GOD, Brick! Jesus, I hope he's alright. And I hope the Greys are doing their best him, too.  
When I'm done here, I'll run back to Oswego as fast as I can to see if everything is alright.  
Once we reach the other end, we find ourselves in a vast, spotless dining hall with a high bright lit ceiling and a light, silver metal table that stretches over the floor. Maya tugs back the black metal chair with a high back before she turns to me.  
“Oh, Joey,” she stops me in place. “Sit here.” I swallow and take my seat in the metal chair, and then she sits next to me. Meanwhile, Angeline goes all the way around the far end of the table and doubles back to the other side of the table, right across from the two of us. Maya taps on my arm; I glance over at her reaching into the inside of her coat and taking out something.  
“Hold out your hand,” she whispers to me, and I do. Her fingertips are as light as a feather as she places the arrowhead pendant into the palm of my hand.  
“That's for knowing where to find me.”  
“Thank you,” I whisper to her as I drop it into my coat pocket, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Angeline leaning forward, as if listening in on us. But I take a second look to find her setting her handbag down on the floor.  
“Thank you,” she retorts back to me, and for a second, I think she winks at me.  
“Okay!” Mike declares from the far left end of the table. “Who wants drinks?”  
“I'll just have water,” I tell him.  
“Me, too,” Maya adds.  
“Cup of coffee,” Angeline replies. “With a little cream.”  
It was just like in the cafe in Seattle: these tubes shoot down from the ceiling over our heads onto the top of the table and flatten off once they reach the surface. The ones in front of me and Maya fill with water before closing off to just the right height so as to resemble a glass. I catch a speck of black in my water.  
“Um—” I call out to him, pointing at my glass. “There's something in my drink.”  
“What's it smell like?” Mike's like a superhero there on the other side of the table with his hands pressed to his hips. I pick up the glass and hold it up to my nose.  
“What's it smell like, Joey?” Angeline repeats as her tube tapers off and morphs to form a mug filled with coffee.  
“Kinda sweet. Like sugar.”  
“Molasses!” he hollers. “To which I say, welcome to Boston! On the menu tonight, we have pan fried mutton with stuffing and green beans, courtesy of Maya.”  
Ugh. God. After she stuffed me the other day, I don't think I can stomach another round of that, especially with something as rich as mutton. I don't think I've ever tried mutton before. But I'll try the stuffing and the beans, though.  
But much to my surprise, the plates emerge in front of us from the table top covered in what looks like dried powder. There's a pile of what resembles chili powder on the left side of the plate, and right across from it sits a pile of pale white and green lumpy powder. I glance up at Angeline, who's scowling at her plate.  
“Looks like spices,” I remark. “But without all the sumptuous spice.”  
“Unless it's dehydrated,” she replies, never lifting her gaze from her plate. “You know, like what they give to astronauts or what you'd take with you on a nature trip, but I don't think that's what it is.”  
“All the nourishment from those articles of food superconcentrated into superfine particles, freeze dried, and made proper to eat with nothing more than your own hands,” Mike explains in a single breath. “All the yummy goodness but without the mess.”  
I glance up at Angeline again right as she raises an eyebrow at me. I look over at Maya, who's all but inhaling her powder.  
“Mike, when's dinner ready—” I recognize that down home accent right behind me. I turn my head to see her taking off her yellow slicker. She gasps at the sight of me.  
“Joey! I didn't expect to see you here,” Molly greets me with a bewildered look on her face.  
“I should tell you the same thing,” I retort to her, feeling the butterflies whir up inside my stomach once more; I show her a nervous smile as I raise my glass to her.  
“I came back for the next week for an extension of Thanksgiving,” she explains, setting her slicker down on the table next to me.  
“I returned Maya's—car,” I sputter out, bringing the sweet smelling glass to my lips for a sip. And then I turn to Angeline across the table right as she's taking a drink from her coffee. “Uh, this is—Angeline from the New York Times—”  
“Molly, what have I told you about leaving your jacket on the table?” Mike scoffs, still on the far end of the table.  
“Oh, come on, Mike, I'm just putting it here for a second. You know I'm gonna hang it up.”  
“Well, you should've done it when you came in through the back door!”  
I turn to Angeline as she's taking another sip of coffee.  
“Dinner and a show,” I note to her, and she nods at me with a nervous smile.  
“Oh, Mike, don't be petty!” Molly shouts from right next to me. “Especially with two guests in the house!”  
“Petty? Petty?! You didn't hang up your damn coat!”  
“Like I said—!”  
“You want me to show it to you?”  
“Oh, Michael, don't do this…”  
“Come with me, Molly.”  
“Don't—”  
“I said COME WITH ME!”  
I wince at his raising his voice. Molly turns back to us.  
“I'm so sorry,” she quips to me in a quiet voice.  
“No, no,” I insist, but it is a little awkward now. She scurries away from me; I turn back to Angeline right as she's finishing her coffee.  
“That was quick,” I remark.  
“Wasn't even hot.” And I stick out my tongue and point my finger into my mouth. I then turn to Maya, who's pretty much vacuumed up the contents on her plate, as she's picking up her glass.  
“How embarrassing,” she whispers aloud right before she takes a big drink. She holds the glass out from her face and sighs again: I catch a whiff of green beans on her breath. “I've had enough. Will you both excuse me—”  
“Yeah, of course,” I assure her, and she climbs out from her chair right as Mike's shouts sear in from down the room. I return to Angeline.  
“Can we make a run for it now?” she asks me, picking up her handbag. I reach into my pocket for the arrowhead.  
“I've got a better idea. Climb over the table this time, too. Y'know, so you don't have to go way the hell down there—”


	13. (the missing knife)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed the rating from explicit to mature on both this one and book one because while they do have their moments of maturity and is told through joey's eyes, they're not *that* mature (i've written and seen filthier) xoxo

November 28, 1988. Manhattan, New York.  
“Ow—ow—ow—what—where are we?”  
Angeline is right next to me as we're laying on clean smelling carpet in a building somewhere in the heart of Manhattan, just like how she suggested to me. I roll over onto my back and right above me is a dim lit ceiling; out of the corner of my eye, I spot the top edge of a desk to the right of me. I catch a whiff of coffee floating in from over my head. I push myself onto my elbows for a better look around at this room. The sole light is flowing in from the outside, from behind the long white shades covering the window to the right of me, right behind the desk here.  
“Looks like we're in an office of the New York Times?” I wonder aloud. She lifts herself up from the floor so as to look out to the left of us. I guess there's a door there.  
“Yeah, we are. This is the copier room. My office is three doors down from here.”  
In the dim light, I watch her rub her eyes with one hand before rolling over onto her side. She then sits upright with her back pressed up against the wall right next to her handbag.  
“What even was that that we went through?” she asks me.  
“A wormhole—” I grunt out as I lift myself off the floor and straighten myself into an upright position. “—I guess this thing—where is it—” I pull up my knees and let my legs relax so they're propped open. “—it's that arrowhead pendant, it creates wormholes. Oh, here it is—”  
I reach in between my legs to pick up the pendant from the hard carpet underneath me. I hold it in between my index finger and my thumb when I catch a glimpse of something pure white sitting on the metal shelf right before me.  
“That's not paper,” I wonder aloud.  
“Where?” I point straight ahead to the shelf.  
“No, those are page protectors,” she replies. “Temporary entities made of plasma that we use to keep all original copies protected.”  
“Original copies…” I think back to that copy of After the Watershed Maya had given me the night before the accident.  
“Do you think that maybe you could show me some of the research you've found?” I ask her; in the dim light, I see her nibbling on her bottom lip.  
“I can, yes,” she answers. “Since you've shown me that you can be trusted, I can in fact show you some of the things Dominique uncovered about her. I'll tell her about when I see her, though. You know, just—”  
“For safety reasons,” I finish.  
“Liability reasons, yes. I hope we can get into my office, though—I don't even know if I have my key…”  
Something shiny is sitting on the shelf next to the thick stack of page protectors. Something I recognize.  
“Is that my knife?” I wonder aloud.  
“Your knife?” she repeats.  
“My pocket knife—” I clinch onto the arrowhead pendant as I push myself forward onto my knees. I take two shuffles forward and reach for the pocket knife laying there on the shelf. It is in fact, my pocket knife, with the blades drawn in and the dark red handle smooth as polished stone. My uncle gave me this knife when I was in middle school, telling me I could use it whenever it proved necessary during a hockey game. I guess it was my grandpa's because I've been told he had it when he worked near the Iroquois reservation. I still wish I had it on me when I found Maya.  
“What's it doing here?” Angeline asks me as I cram the thing into my jeans pocket.  
“I have no idea. Kinda like how I have no idea why wormholes move but I guess—they just do?”  
I tie the arrowhead pendant back around my neck so I don't lose it and then, using the shelf as a crutch, I climb onto my feet. I turn to see Angeline steadying herself on the wall as she stands up herself. I extend a hand for her and she chuckles at me.  
“Thank you, sweet boy, but I've got it, though.”  
I watch her using the amber lights from outside so as to search through her handbag, and then I hear a jingling.  
“We have lift off, Joseph.”  
She slings her handbag over her shoulder with her free hand once she's upright and then she leads me to the door. I follow her out to the dark hallway, which smells of steamed vacuum cleaning and a stubborn lingering whiff of coffee, and three doors down to a heavy oak door with a heavy brass knob that shines even in the darkness. She inserts the key into the keyhole and I hear a soft click on the inside. She pushes open the door and I'm met with a bright flood of amber lights from the City outside.  
“Damn,” I mutter out, shielding my eyes.  
“Yeah—I kind of had a hunch this was the case before I signed out for the holiday weekend.” I watch her slight silhouette nearing the window to pull the shades. There's a grinding sound of a chain pull being dragged. The light dims enough to where we can see about the room and I lower my hand as a result.  
She's got a series of pure white orchids on the dark wooden shelf on the wall over her desk, and there are half a dozen fancy intricate looking silver clocks on the wall to my left. A heavy silver radiator sits in the corner of the room, one with an intricate bundle of pipes leading up to the ceiling. I glance down at the soft rich dark red shag carpet right underneath my feet: the amber lights from outside highlight little glints of gold embedded within the threads.  
Without turning on a light of some sort, I watch her approach her desk for something in one of the drawers. She takes it out using the amber light. Looks like one of those cold case files from the movies in a plain white folder held together at the open end by an intricate silver clip.  
“Here, Joey—I might as well just give it to you for the time being, given you're the one finding things out about Maya.”  
The clip makes a tiny squeak sound, like it's spring loaded, and then she hands it to me.  
“Thank you,” I tell her, taking the heavy parchment folder.  
“If you have any questions, like if you need any help, ask me or Dominique or—who were the other two women she talked about? They're in like—Seattle or something?”  
“I forget their names,” I confess as she closes the drawer. She slings the handbag over her shoulder again.  
“But yeah. Come to us if you need anything pertaining to her seeing as you're just a regular guy and everything.”  
“Right.” I tuck the folder under my arm and hold it right up against my belly so it doesn't get away from me. “Well, what are you gonna do?”  
“Me?” She rounds the side of the desk towards me. “Don't worry about me, okay?”  
“But wait, what about Matt and Dominique?” I ask her as I examine her in the amber light.  
“I'm sure they're fine. She told me she wanted to go to Boston with him and it just so happened to coincide with something we were doing.” She puts her arms around me and I return the favor with my free arm.  
“Take care of yourself,” she whispers into my ear.  
“Of course,” I whisper back to her.  
She lets go of me and leads me back to the door and then the hallway. Once she locks the door, she leads me back down the hall to a pair of shiny silver elevator doors.  
“Oh, I forgot,” she mutters under her breath. “Elevator's out for the time being. It's either the stairs, the fire escape, or the dumb waiter.”  
“At least it's not that far of a climb,” I point out to her.  
“Five stories. Could be worse. Anyways, I'll catch you later, Joey—” She walks onward down the hall, thus leaving me alone. I reach down my shirt for the arrowhead pendant.  
Time to head on back home and sleep in my bed again.  
There's just one problem now.  
I think I left my copy of Ultramega OK in the car.  
I find one thing only to realize I lost another thing. Ugh.


	14. (back to black... orchid, that is)

December 1, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
It's a brand new day here back home upstate. I'm laying in bed all bundled up in my blankets and nursing every part of the warmth that's cradling me right now. I'm like a sleepy cat laying in the sun, except there's no sun at the moment as far as I can tell. Everything is soft, including myself. Who would've known a skinny boy could be so soft and warm.  
On the other hand, I wonder Lars is doing right now. I haven't seen him in a while but it feels so long ago. I wonder how life is for him right now back in Portland. I think about his wife and how she acts toward him. I'm laying here on my back with the memory of her cursing him out fleeting from my own memory bank.  
As if there are any more things I need to remember.  
And then there's Marcia and Sonia. I wonder they're doing right now. And they've got the two of us invited to lunch, too!  
I roll my head over the top of the pillow. I don't want to leave this warm feeling here, even with the tip of my nose and the edges of my lips turning cold. Everything is so gentle, just how I want it.  
Well, that's not quite right. It'd be just how I want it if I had another two bowls full of that pasta from my aunt and uncle's house.  
But I'm content here, laying here with the blankets pulled up to my ears and my hands resting upon my stomach.  
That is until I feel something brush up against my knee. I open my eyes just part of the way and I see something moving on the ceiling overhead.  
I open them a little more to make out the full shape of her body. Her long hair streams behind her as if there's wind right around her. Her skin shines like the snow under the light of the full moon. Everything about her is just how I want her to be in the ghost of a girl.  
“Hello, my love,” I greet her in a hoarse voice. Nerissa drifts closer to me with her hand outstretched towards my chest. She runs two of her fingers over the surface of the blanket on top: her touch is so light that I don't even feel her. Her body is so full and sexy, and yet the blankets have such a snug hold on me that I can't even move.  
She lands on her hip right there on the edge of the bed, right next to my waist. She strokes my chest again, and this time I feel her through the blankets. I show her my tongue as she leans forward, closer to my face.  
“—slim and lush boy,” she whispers to me, and the tip of her tongue slithers out of her mouth as she comes in closer to mine. “Even more lush than ever.”  
I hold still with my lips parted as she's right there right in front of my head. But instead of a kiss, she runs her fingers along my lips. The sensation sends chills over my skin. I open my mouth even more for her, but she vanishes right before my eyes before I can say anything to her.  
I relax and let out a loud sigh.  
“God—why.”  
I know that's got to be my cue to get up now. And so I do. And I'm met with the whole place feeling colder than a refrigerator, so cold that I can't get into my flannel shirt quick enough. Well, at least I have things for breakfast now. I don't have to rely on those stinkin' Mike n Ikes again.  
I'm outside of my room and looking to my right at the sight of Vera disappearing into nothing. At least Mrs. Snow isn't here at the moment.  
At least I hope she isn't. I don't feel like lighting up a stick of incense at the moment.  
What I do feel like doing is having something to eat and then going out to see if Barney and Billy are home. I also need to do something about those songs I have on that notepad there in the front room.  
I'll have to ask around at some point. Surely someone has to have studio time at some point for me.  
Once I've got a toasted English muffin with butter and a bit of coffee in me, I get dressed and head on out into this raw wintry morning. I think it's going to snow again so I'm glad I've got those leather gloves Ellen gave me. Speaking of Ellen, I hope that, if she's gone now, she was given a proper burial down in New Orleans. I hope that her family is aware of what happened to her. I'll have to come in touch with them.  
But like there are more things I have to do at the moment. One thing at a time, Joe. One thing at a time. One day at a time.  
The winds are extra cold this morning, and so I've got my scarf pulled up to my ears and over the tip of my nose and my lips. Bitter raw cold, from the heart of the incoming lake effect snow to my left. The last days of fall are waning away and winter is summoning upon us.  
I remember those days when I was a young kid and I’d walk to school from my parents’ old house humming the Beatles songs to myself while the snow beckoned upon us. Eight days a week.  
The House of Grey is looking quiet and buttoned down this morning with its darkened windows. I have a nagging feeling at that pit of my stomach but I’ll give their door a knock just to see what’s going on with my friends. I pad onto the doorstep and tap on the panel with my first two knuckles. That’s even colder.  
Silence. Knock again.   
No one’s home. Damn it.  
I don’t really feel like going back to my place and I can’t think of any numbers offhand. I don’t know if Marcia and Sonia are in today and the snow is coming so I don’t really wanna risk driving over to Rochester. There is one place I can go to, though, without crawling through a wormhole. I tug the scarf over the bridge of my nose and onto my cheekbones before doubling back onto the yard. I’m braving it and going on over to the bus stop. It’s quite the long walk, much longer than the one on the night I found Maya. Could be with this wind beating down upon me.  
There’s that folder Angeline gave me the other night. I haven’t cracked it open yet just because I haven’t mustered the right state of mind as of yet. After quite the event of a dinner the other night, I haven’t been able to stomach anything pertaining to her. I really have no idea what to believe now about her. There’s just too many things going on, and too many variations and variables and whatnot that it’s exhausting every time I think about it. It’s like Lake Ontario itself with deep black waters that seem to flow against each other, obscuring the bottom.  
I reach the bus stop and hold there for a minute before the bus itself lumbers up to the curb. I have some spare change in my pocket.  
I take a seat at the front window behind the driver: I still have the scarf pulled up over most of my face even though I feel the blast of warm air from the heater upon my face.  
Heading on to the backwoods outside of town. Towards that neighborhood near the country club, Denny’s, and the hockey rink. I ring the bell to get off once that one stop approaches even closer.  
I climb off and I glance up at the darkening sky for a second before pressing onwards. The snow is coming. Once the bus pulls away from the curb, I stride the other way to the same spot I saw Death and then Maya. The feeling is different now as I cross the street to the sidewalk and continue onward towards the country club and then Black Orchid. The sign is still alight even in the daytime, such that it leads me to the front step once again..  
I knock on the panel and wait a second. The door opens for me and I’m greeted by her short ‘do and her fitted black leather jacket and accompanying black lace fingerless gloves.  
“There’s our mister!” Mrs. Hamilton greets me with a big beaming grin.  
“Hey, Big Mama,” I return the favor to her from under my scarf.  
“Come on in, Joey—you look so cold!” She leads me into the club and I shut the door behind me. I tug down the scarf so as to better feel the warmth around me. Lizzy emerges from the back room in a black top tied up around her chest which better shows off Jessica Rabbit and Betty Boop, but also an inkling of Jiminy Cricket on her side, right underneath her rib cage, and a considerably sized tattoo of Bettie Page surrounded by lilies and roses on her lower back. She shows me a smile as she approaches me with her arms open.  
“There’s my walking art gallery,” I greet her and hold her close for a moment. She stands up on her toes so as to kiss my face.  
“My goodness, your skin is cold,” she remarks.  
“The snow is upon us, baby doll,” I tell her.  
“Lili, we need to put him in a glass case so he doesn’t get frostbite,” Lizzy tells Mrs. Hamilton.  
“I keep telling you, Liz, they’re too small for him and be careful with that Lili comment.” She wags her finger at her before doubling back to the stairs, and hitching up her skin-tight leather pants all the while. Louie skids into the room right then from the kitchen wearing some big heavy jewelry about her neck. Her face lights up when she recognizes me.  
“Lupe!” she calls into the kitchen. “Lupe, he’s here!”  
“Ladies, please,” I tell her and Lizzy, who’s still got her arm around my lower back. “I am not a specimen.”  
“Bull,” Louie insists, tossing her black hair back from her shoulder so as to emphasize her collar bones. “That is complete bull.”  
“You’re the finest regular specimen we’ve got, Joey,” Lizzy points out, her tongue running around her lips at me. Lupe then pokes her head out from the kitchen door with her black hair tousled onto one side of her head and those glorious hoop earrings dangling.  
“The she-wolf senses it, too,” Louie adds.  
“There’s my desert rose,” I say in a soft voice. “So let’s see, I’ve got Big Mama Hamilton, the Liz-meister, Louie Louie, and now the blooming one. I could ask where Gwen, Morgan, and Cindy Lou Who are because the more, the merrier but I’ll take this, though.” Lizzy runs her fingers up my chest: I feel her flat belly pressing against me. I look into her eyes and see that glimmer. That glimmer telling me she wants it. She’s another quiet one here, her and Cindy both. I like Lupe but I should probably give Lizzy a chance. She’s got those rad tattoos, too!  
I open the top two buttons of my coat to better untie my scarf.  
My neck is exposed for her. She’s about to kiss my neck when there’s a knock on the door behind me.  
“It’s open!” Louie calls as she strolls on closer to me, on my other side. The door swings open right behind me and I tug Lizzy in closer to me to keep her warm.  
“Joey,” a voice behind me declares. I shuffle around to see Spence huddled down inside of his heavy overcoat with his big black gloved hands covering his face.  
“Spence!”  
“Hey.”  
“What's up? What's wrong?”  
“Brick's back in the hospital,” he promptly says: I turn to see Louie and Lupe pressing their hands to their mouths. Lizzy meanwhile mouths the words “oh my God” at us.  
“Are you serious?!” I gasp at him, and he nods his head so slow at me.  
“Dead serious. Come on, I'll take you over to Syracuse. And I guess Lars and Sonia are there, too. I don’t know why but they are. Close your coat, too. It’s snowing like there’s no tomorrow out there.”  
“We will be waiting for you, though, Joey,” Lupe assures me. I turn back around right as she kisses my neck: Lizzy follows suit, and then Louie finishes it out with a delicate one on my cheek. Mrs. Hamilton returns in time for one right next to the corner of my mouth. So many kisses. But I’m gonna need them for what I'm about to do.


	15. (visiting hours)

December 1, 1988. Syracuse, New York.  
“Okay, so tell me what happened now.”  
We're inside of the hospital I was in before when I first visited Brick. The whole place is still absurdly clean and I still wonder about all the lights and things that surround us on the way up to the intensive care unit. Spence stops me right in front of the elevator doors as they close and leave us under the veil of that new car smell. I guess visiting hours are just now opening up for the day: I figure we'll be here all day with Lars and Sonia if we must.  
“You know, Barney and Billy took Brick home with them,” he starts, reaching into his pocket for something.  
“Right.” I untie my scarf because it's nice and warm in here.  
“And he was laying on the couch and he had those feathers growing out from his head and his neck—” He takes out a little zipped bag of pink and white candy. “—Good and Plenties?”  
“Nah. You and those stupid things, I swear.” I stick my thumbs into my jeans pockets.  
“They're so tasty, though. I've like these for years, Joe. These and Jujyfruit.”  
“Oh, right?”  
“Anyways—the feathers were getting bigger and longer with time and I guess it was aching him like crazy.” He slips a couple of those candies into his mouth. “Like while it made our skin itch, those of us on the outside looking in, I guess it was agonizing for him because whenever he woke up he'd shudder and shake from pain.”  
“Shit. While I can't believe I wasn't there to help you guys out, I'm—kinda glad I wasn't there.”  
“No, it was—it was hard to watch him. I'm glad you weren't there, either, because it would've wrecked you. He wasn't eating anything worth jack shit, either. And so at one point, Barney was like 'dude, Brick, you gotta eat something.' But he wouldn't.” He sticks a couple of white ones which stuck together into his mouth: that smell of licorice overtakes the new car smell pervading the floor.  
“The light would hurt him, too,” he adds with his mouth full.  
“Hurt him?”  
“Yeah, like he'd—” He swallows it down. “—he'd totally wince and make these painful whimpers whenever either Barney or Bill turned the light on. They soon found out more feathers would grow all along his arms and his legs. It was like he was turning into a bird. It got so bad that they called me up the other day and told me to tell you, Lars, and Sonia that they were taking him to the hospital. You weren't home so I told the two of them. Sonia's been on Thanksgiving break but she's been working overtime at the upholstery place with Marcia and Lars had just gotten out of the hospital himself, which kinda scared me.”  
“Yeah, we were—kinda in a car accident,” I fill in for him. And he gapes at me.  
“What—the fuck, why didn't you say anything?”  
“Haven't been able to—wait. I thought you knew about it?”  
“No! No one said anything to me about that!”  
“What the hell? I thought Dominique called Sonia and then she called everyone I knew after it happened. That's what Lars told me.”  
He shakes his head. “Nah, man, I didn't hear a thing about that. I thought you were at your parents' house.”  
“I was in the City seeing Soundgarden again. And then I went out to dinner with Lars, Nancy, and Dominique. I fell asleep at the wheel and we totaled the car in the Bronx. Fucked up my back for a few days, hit my head, and everything.”  
He runs his hand through his hair and gapes at me as his face turns as white as a sheet.  
“Holy—shit!”  
“You're telling me no one told you what happened that night?” I demand to him, feeling my stomach turn.  
“Yes,” he sputters out. I'm at as much of a loss for words as he is because I swear—I swear—Lars told me as we were laying in our hospital beds to not worry about calling everyone I know on what happened. I feel sick.  
The third door on the right side of the hall opens and Sonia pokes her head out from the doorway. I point my finger at her.  
“Hey!” I call out to her. “Why didn't you tell Spence Lars and I were both in a car accident and the two of us could've been killed?”  
“You were in a car accident?” she asks me, bewildered.  
“We were,” Lars' voice floats out from behind her.  
“You mean—Dominique didn't call you?” I lower my hand.  
“No…” She almost looks hurt.  
I glance back at Spence, whose mouth is full of Good and Plenties again.  
Okay, now I'm really confused.  
“I'll bring it up to Dominique when I see her,” I assure the both of them, adjusting the lapels of my coat. “But right now—”  
I stride down the hall towards her; Spence follows suit. Sonia fixes her hair as I meet up with her there at the doorway: the room has a bright white floor and bold bright white lights upon the ceiling. To the right is a plain white panel, one that resembles to a sound board in a recording studio, but it's all so clean and crisp. Too clean.  
I turn my head to find a sheet of darkened glass stretched from the wall behind me to the one on the other side of the room. On the other side of the glass, laying in his hospital bed with tubes and wires sticking into parts of his arms and legs, bathed in rich indigo light, his arms laying out from his body like the arms on a rag doll, is Brick.  
They had removed the feathers from his face and his shoulders, and smeared on some kind of cream as a result. His eyes are closed shut and he's got a little mask over his mouth: the mask is linked up to a plastic tube and the tube is snaking behind his bed to what I presume is a tank of some kind. I can see some of the shafts of the feathers remaining behind in the skin on his forearms.  
Spence was right: this is hard to look at. The whole sight of it makes my stomach turn even more. In the reflection of the glass, I see Lars striding up next to me with something in his hand. I turn my head to find him walking with a black wooden cane. He rubs one eye after the other with his free hand.  
“Yeah,” he remarks to me. “No one has any idea what's happening with him.”  
“Billy told me they stuck the tube down his throat,” Sonia starts again, “and they found a bunch of fine trimmed wires and glimmers of neon on the inside of his mouth, right near his gullet. It's like the feathers were tearing him apart from the inside and eating him alive.”  
“Neon?” I repeat that, scowling at my own faint reflection in the glass.  
“Yeah. Like bright blue neon.”  
“Like the neon lights we see in Seattle,” Lars adds, putting his free arm over the top of his head so as to stretch his back.  
“And the same ones across the lake,” I mutter under my breath as Spence himself stands beside me.  
“And they don't know if they stopped the feathers, either,” he continues. “You know, you can see the shafts growing out of his arms. They also have no idea how to rid of the wires and the neon inside of his mouth, either. It's like they're part of his body now.”  
I look on at Brick, at the marks of the shafts over his forearms. There's something on his left wrist. Something that's a little more white than the rest of his skin, and it stands out because of the black lights in the ceiling over him. A little slit, like a scar I don't recognize.  
Brick's my best friend: of all the hockey games we've played in, where I've had a tooth partially knocked out, he never managed to get a worse injury than a pelting in the head with a puck. If he ever got that bad of a cut anywhere on his body, I would've known about it. But this looks new, like it just happened.  
I flash on the scar on Maya's forehead. But that's on her head: this is on his arm.  
I also examine all the tubes and things flooding into his body.  
Neon. Wires. Cybernetics. The robotic work in the house back in Boston.  
This has got me thinking.  
“What you thinking, Joe?” Spence asks me, tucking the Good and Plenties back into his coat pocket.  
“I'm thinking,” I begin, choosing my words with caution, “we should play in Seattle.”  
“We?”  
“Yeah.” I turn my head to look at Spence, who's got one eyebrow raised up a little bit. “You, me, Barney, and Billy.”  
“Why?” He's not sure where I'm going with this, but I know.  
“I have an idea. It's not a plan per se, more of an excuse to get our asses back over there.”  
“Where are you going with this?” Sonia asks me, folding her arms over her chest.  
“Yeah, I mean, your buddy's here in the intensive care unit and literally the most you can do is suggest a round of hockey?” Lars just sounds borderline disgusted.  
“You're gonna be goalie,” I tell him, wagging a finger at him.  
“Me?” He recoils at the very suggestion. “Dude, I can barely walk at a normal pace right now much less stand on skates.”  
“Never said you would have to stand on skates,” I point out. “What am I suggesting is a way into the heart of Seattle. Into the heart of all the neon and all the cybernetic shit. I want us to have a closer look at it.”  
“You think—” Spence cuts himself off. And Lars gasps at me.  
“You don't think—” He stops himself, too. “Maxwell Industries,” he says in a hushed voice.  
“Walter 'Brick' Maxwell. Tell me that's not a coincidence. Also—” I shift my weight right there as I stuff my hands into my coat pockets. “—the other night Nancy—Chris' girlfriend—swung by my place the other night. I guess she's seen Maya in the heart of town. The least I can do right now, not just for Brick but for Maya, too, is to at least have a look around while putting on a little round of hockey.”  
“Joey Belladonna, you are brilliant,” Spence declares, setting a hand on my back.  
“The only issue of course is—do I go by Dominique's word on this especially since—as far as I know anyways—she didn't even call Sonia after the accident.”  
“Well, take this from me, Joey,” Lars tells me, “sometimes you have to listen to your own judgment instead of going by the game of telephone. That's how I got my apartment in New Orleans.”  
I nibble on my bottom lip at that as I gaze on at Brick one last time. I did say I would figure this whole thing with him out even if it kills me after all.


	16. (the third hockey game)

December 20, 1988. Seattle, Washington.  
It would be a whole three weeks before the four of us could group together and head on out to Seattle as a hockey team. On top of that, ever since we visited Brick in the hospital, we were slammed with some of the worst snow I had ever seen in my life: it was so bad, the four of us all got snowed in, stranded in Oswego for a whole two days. Marcia and Sonia were even lucky to leave Rochester for a little while and head on over to Buffalo for a day. And Lars and I still haven't had lunch with them yet. The good side of being stranded at home was I didn't have to leave the apartment for a full day, and then I was able to buy myself a pair of guards for the blades of my skates.  
The more I think about it, the more I want to head on out there on an actual plane instead of crawling through a wormhole, especially since the wormholes move about places when we least expect them to. Between scrounging for plane tickets and my calling up places to see if we could play a game up there, as well as my calling up any place to record my songs. Lucky for us, Lars, Marcia, and Sonia all pitched in for us, as the two sisters themselves decided on flying out there to visit their parents and their good friend there in the cozy corner of Washington; meanwhile, I called my parents to assure them I would be home in time for Christmas.  
I told Lars not to worry about heading down to Portland to tell his wife because we all know the story there at this point. He also told me that Kim and Hiro could find some studio space for me in the University District of downtown but I have my doubts given it's such a strange setting.  
But on the other hand, I'm also open to it. I spent the whole flight nestled in between him and Spence with my hockey gear in my overnight bag right in front of my feet. I have my notepad tucked in the pocket of my big black overcoat. Nothing to see here. Just five guys going to play up in Seattle. We're not a professional team as much as we wish we were.  
The other plus side is going to see Soundgarden themselves again, this time as the four guys we knew before and not the band with the soundscapes that fill a whole theater of some two thousand people. I assured Lars not to worry about finding skates to fit him to partake in his role as goalie. If nothing, he's going to be the ultimate badass with his own stick in one hand and his cane in the other.  
We landed at the airport there in Seattle, right in the heart of the neon lights as they're still glimmering on in the wake of all the dense morning fog surrounding us. I'm leading the whole pack through the airport with my scarf around my neck, my leather gloves and chained boots on, and my mirrored sunglasses upon my face, like I'm the big Italian mob boss. Don't mess with me: I've got a sack full of blades and a hockey stick just waiting to come out if I get any looks.  
There's just one foreseeable downside with all this and that's we actually have to compete with a team now.  
Fine by me, as long as they don't try and intimidate us because I've got an album to record on top of everything else.  
Marcia and Sonia meanwhile have the keys to our rental hydrogen cars, one for the two of them to head on up to a little town called Everett, and one for the five of us. Sonia pats me on the back as she hands me my key. I really don't know if she's telling the truth about calling Spence after the accident, but I also haven't heard a word from Dominique on the whole matter, either.  
Anyways, if I recall correctly, this place is right near the heart of downtown so we'll get a good look of more than just the neon lights there. And there is a Denny's nearby, much to Barney and Billy's rejoicing. The hydrogen hum here is virtually silent; Lars is right next to me in the front seat with his mask already on over his face.  
“Relax, dude,” Spence tells him from the backseat. “It's gonna be a bit before we start playing and even then we've got to warm up.”  
“I think he's a little wary of all the neon here,” I suggest as we pull up to a stoplight.  
“I really am,” Lars replies through gritted teeth.  
“It's alright, it's just a little light. It's not gonna hurt ya.” But I peer out the windshield at some of the little buildings here in this part of town. Some otherwise small, nondescript shops, garages, and places that are perfectly fine otherwise but have these odd flat black screens on the front sides. They're odd because they seem to follow the outer corners, like they're wrapped around. And the buildings themselves almost look abandoned: we pass a leather shop which has the lights out even though it's still early in the day.  
This fog meanwhile is growing thick and heavy over our heads with each passing intersection. I hope it's not too cold as we reach the intersection of the street leading over to the recording studio Soundgarden recorded Ultramega OK.  
This part of town was not nearly as advanced back then when I first met Soundgarden as it is now. The buildings all look like they're made entirely of polished silver: even the Space Needle is looking extra shiny and clean and crisp at the moment, its blue and green neon as bright as a lighthouse. The glimmers of neon are in full swing here up on the rooftop gardens and over the awnings. Then I catch the sight of something small and shiny flying against the dense fog.  
I think back to what Angeline told me about the drones. They make a sound that's below human hearing, such that it can cause paranoia. I think about the hydrogen car that we're riding in right now and I wonder if it's the case here, too. But then again, probably not. I feel fine.  
But then there's Lars with the mask already over his face.  
That one drone itself is floating over the heart of downtown Seattle, right where we're headed.  
The light turns the brightest neon green I have ever seen in my life and we roll onward to the hockey rink.  
Lars peers out the window at the heart of downtown and I catch glimpses every so often on my part. Everything is so smoothed out and polished: all the lights are suspended by those spindly white wires. The street itself is black and in need of those street cleaners.  
I think about Maya, how she spent all that time here, running around the puddles and the blacktop with nothing more than her own mind. At least I think she did.  
But that copy of After the Watershed was real. Surely she did. I touched that booklet. I felt it, I read it, I tucked it under my jacket to protect it from the rain, and I wound up losing the stupid thing after the accident. But there's too many sides to this story. I can only make a guess and right at the moment, I don't feel like taking a shot in the dark because I'm looking around for the hockey rink—  
“Ah! Here we are.”  
I spot the Denny's, nestled on the corner right across the street from the tall matte silver light posts surrounding a good sized outdoor hockey rink. I pull into the tiny sliver of pavement right near the entrance right as those light posts flicker on and bathe the ice in pure white light.  
“Okay, so I just have to sit and make sure the puck doesn't get in?” Lars relays to me, still through gritted teeth.  
“Exactly,” I reply as I kill the hydrogen engine. I don't think it goes off at first but I turn the key again, and yes, it's off. I climb out first to take in the cool dampness lacing throughout the corridors of Seattle; embedded in that dampness is the chill of cold metal and stone. I shiver and close my coat as I shut the door behind me. Barney, Billy, and Spence climb out of the backseat so we can fetch our things.  
“I assume that's where we change?” Spence nods to the little shed to our right.  
“Maybe?” I wonder aloud. I really have no idea. “It's worth a shot.”  
Billy puts his arm around Lars so as to help him out and Spence takes off his gloves before following them over there.  
“I've noticed something, Joey,” Barney starts as he closes the trunk lid.  
“What's that?”  
“There's no people.”  
I glance around the block. Indeed, it's just us here. I didn't even see any passersby at any of the crosswalks. There weren't even any other cars on the other side of the street. I just saw the drone up in the sky and that was it.  
“Yeah. On top of that, I haven't heard a bird or anything since we left the airport, and even then it was just the whir of the waters.”  
“Oh, from the Puget Sound?”  
“Yeah. It's weirdly quiet right now. But let's get changed, though—surely the team will be here any second now.” We head on over to the shed and step in through the door on the other side. There's a few wooden benches in here plus a single row of metal lockers that look very old. Billy and Spence have already changed into their jerseys while Lars is still trying to change out of his jeans. Poor guy.  
He finally gets it once I open up my bag and take off my coat, my gloves, my scarf, and then my shirt. I put on my jersey, only to take off my boots and replace them with my skates.  
As I'm lacing up, Spence calls me from outside.  
“What's up, man?” I reply back once I straighten myself upright. He stands in the doorway with his hands resting on the edges of the door frame.  
“The team's here,” he tells us, “but it's not what you think.”  
“What do you mean it's not what we think?” Barney asks him. I put my gloves back on and pick up my mask before standing onto my feet; Lars stands up with his cane in hand and follows me out. I poke my head out to see a half dozen of narrow white human shaped things. Robots, I think. Everything about them is perfectly smooth and they're faceless, and they're so skinny they make me look overweight.  
They shuffle about the pavement in total silence: their metallic feet don't even make a sound as they walk towards the rink. Spence glances back at me with a befuddled look upon his face.  
“Who did you talk to when you said you wanted to play a game up here?” he asks me, his tone of voice unsure of where any of this is going.  
“Some lady,” I reply to him. “An actual person. I forget her name but yeah. I sealed the deal with her and I thought for sure. What is this, some kind of gag?”  
“I think not, Joey,” Lars tells me; I turn to see him pointing at the edge of the rink and the bots' feet narrowing and turning into something that resembles blades on skates.  
“We better get to it,” Barney advises us.  
“Yeah—” I turn my head even more so as to come within sight of the doorway to the shed. “Hey, Bill, you coming?”  
“Yeah! Just need to get my laces secured—okay!” He emerges from the shed with his stick over his shoulder. I wonder how this is going to go as we pad over to the entrance of the rink and, once we remove the guards from the blades, we file onto the ice, one right after the other. I pass the shiny blue metal posts on our end of the rink and I make out the shiny green ones on the far side.  
I've got my mask resting upon the crown of my head and my stick firmly in my leather gloved hand. I make my way over to the middle of the rink right as the one robot shows me a hand which morphed into the head of a hockey stick at some point. Gotta be brave. Surely this can't be that bad. Five guys versus five robots that look like a bunch of mannequins.  
This can't be that bad.  
It was in fact that bad.  
Spence fell down so many times trying to catch the puck: probably two of those times right on his ass. Barney, the resident badass, lost patience with one that he deked twice and ended up high sticking and wound up in the penalty box. Billy, the well behaved one, also deked and almost hit me in the head. Poor Lars, the stand-in, could hardly keep the puck out of the goal posts. Meanwhile, I, the quick one, was about to hobble the captain on the other side because the son of a bitch was moving too fast that I could hardly catch up to it.  
These damn bots are good. Too good in fact. It's like they were specifically made to beat humans at hockey.  
The only time I did score was when Marcia and Sonia arrived and the former chucked a milkshake at one of the bots which allowed me to scoop up the little black puck. I pretty much sprinted down the rink with the puck right in front of me, and I was moving so fast that I hardly paid attention to where I was going. I leaned so far back that I almost fell on my hip shooting the puck into the goal posts and between that goalie's legs.  
“YES!” I shouted, and that's when I fall right on my ass. The goalie sidles away from there, right around me to the other side of the rink.  
Spence flies over to me with his hand outstretched for me. I climb onto my feet as if I'm on firm hard ground instead of ice. I strip off my mask, and rub my eyes and my nose with the back of my glove. I notice the robots are filing out of the rink.  
“Is that game?” I ask him in a broken voice.  
“It is,” he informs with a look of disappointment on his face. “What the fuck was that?”  
“I'll tell you what the fuck was that,” I quip to him, “we bombed, that's what the fuck was that.”  
“That was brutal,” Barney joins in from the side; he's out of breath and his face is flushed. This is probably the one time I've ever seen Barney truly exhausted.  
“How's Lars, by the way?” I ask him, and he points down the rink to where Lars is laying flat on his back on the ice. Billy is approaching us from behind Barney: he, too, looks beat.  
“He was working harder than I imagined,” he answers me.  
“Oh, I don't believe this,” I scoff at that. I lead the three of them to the other side of the ice, where the robots have already left and Marcia and Sonia are congregated at the entrance huddled down in their coats. Once I come closer, I make out the look of agony on Lars' face.  
“You alright?” I ask him, reaching out my hand for him to take.  
“My knee,” he moans, “one of those—bloody machines—strained my knee so much. Oh—God dammit.”  
I lift my gaze to the two girls at the entrance and I make my way over to them.  
“Here, hold these.” I hand Marcia my stick and my mask before doubling back to the goal posts. I stoop down to pick him up: it's tricky doing so on ice but I managed to do it anyways. I hold Lars close to my chest as I make my way towards the entrance.  
“Sonia—on the wall to your left is a pair of long grayish blocks. Those are the guards for my skates. Could you be a dear and help put those on for me please?”  
“Yeah, sure—”  
Still cradling Lars in my arms, I lift up one leg for her to put on the first one, followed by the other. And at that point, Lars is feeling rather heavy against my arms and I stagger over to the shed so as to set him down on one of the benches. I lay him flat on his back with his legs stretched to ease the pain on his knee. Breathing hard, I collapse right on the bench next to him. I give my curls a toss before proceeding to untie my skates. Sonia emerges in the doorway with Marcia right behind her.  
“We were not expecting all that,” Sonia remarks to me.  
“You're telling me!” I reply to her, taking off my gloves so I can better unlace my skates. “That last shot I did was one for the money, I know it.”  
“We should tell you guys,” Marcia begins, poking her head over her sister's shoulder, “Chris and Matt told us that there's a little band playing just to the south of here tomorrow night that we think you boys'll really like.”  
“How far south from here?” Lars asks her, lifting his head from the bench.  
“Little town called Hoquiam,” she replies. “Not too far from here. They're called—Nirvana, I think is what Chris said.”  
“They said they're like their little brothers,” Sonia adds.  
“Sweet,” I tell them, unlacing my skates. “By the way, you ladies gonna join us over at Denny's?”  
“We might as well,” says Sonia with a shrug. “We owe the two of you a lunch anyways.”


	17. (bleached nirvana underpants)

December 20, 1988. Belltown, Washington.  
The hotel Lars and the girls had helped me pick out is a long low inn in the shape of an “L”, with a slanted black roof and a wrap around black screen on the outside walls on one side. It's probably the one thing here in the central part of the city that actually has some life to it with a few people congregated near the big screen. As the seven of us are stepping into the front lobby for the five of us guys to check in for the night, I catch a glimpse of the words “Maxwell Industries” imprinted on the edge of the screen.  
I knew it. I'm getting closer. At least I hope I am.  
I'm not really up for another round of hockey after what happened earlier. I think it might have to do with the fact that we participated in that right after we got off the plane, but I can't really say for sure. We surely had our work cut out for us against a bunch of cyborgs.  
Lars, Spence, and I are sharing a room right across the parking lot, which means Lars and I are probably going to have to sleep head to toe again tonight. I just hope I don't kick him in the head again because I need him to be well rested so we can do a little snooping around here in the heart of downtown. This band Nirvana, the one that's playing down the road from us in Hoquiam, is a good reason to stay here for a couple of days before Christmas. I'm looking forward to seeing them as well as roaming about the streets of downtown Seattle in order to figure some things out. I wonder if we'll run into Nancy and Dominique at some point as I unlock the door of our room.  
It's a small room with two queen sized beds and a rickety looking nightstand right in between them. Right across the room is a walk-in closet and the bathroom. To my left stands the dresser which holds the TV and a little coffee maker with a bunch of paper cups. Reminds me of all the rooms I stayed in with Anthrax.  
The four of us amble into the room and set down our things, but before I can take off my coat and my shirt, Spence already has me beat, peeling off his shirt and ducking into the bathroom for a shower with his shampoo in hand.  
“Damn it!” I blurt out and he bursts out laughing. Meanwhile, on the first bed right next to me, Lars groans in pain as he sinks down right on the edge: he's gripping onto his cane like it's about to get away from him.  
“Are you alright?” I ask him in a kind voice.  
“In pain. Horrible pain. God, it hurts so bad.”  
“Do you want me to get you something?”  
“No, no. It's fine.”  
“No. Dude—” I'm interrupted by Spence muttering “ah, man” to himself, and the sound of his voice is then followed by the loud whistle of the shower head in the bathroom.  
“Jesus,” I say aloud, and then I return my attention to Lars. “Anyways, it looks like a part of your body is about to explode, dude. I'm gonna get you something for the pain.”  
“No, Joey. Please. No.”  
“Lars,” I say to him.  
“I just have to—God, I don't even know—”  
“Lars!”  
He quips something to me in words that don't sound English.  
“I don't speak freaky weaky Danish,” I scoff at him.  
“I made up the whole thing about Dominique calling everyone you knew after the accident,” he confesses in a single breath.  
“What?”  
“I made the whole thing up!”  
“What—” I run both my hands through my hair. “What the hell is wrong with you?”  
“I was under the influence of a ton of morphine then, alright?”  
“That doesn't explain that, though! Or justify it for that matter!”  
“I made it up because I didn't want you to worry about anything. Dominique left the scene after we were taken to the hospital so she had nothing to do with it. She probably thinks we're just now getting out of it. I only did it because it's bad enough that you and I are uncovering things about Maya together and my marriage and your best friend are both already on the line as a result of it—like you need to worry about your parents worrying about what happened to you. You got the least worst of it anyways.”  
“I still could've been killed, though, Lars,” I curtly point out to him. “I hit my head, for crying out loud!”  
“Yes, but you're alive, aren't you? It was a narrow escape and I knew that was the case when I awoke in the hospital bed and I saw you laying next to me. I got the worst of it and all I could think was 'holy hell, that was a close one.' I was injected with loads of morphine and even under the veil of the fog, it allowed me to think about things a little more, about what happened and what's happening at the moment. It was kind of like thinking about things while you're still half asleep and you let every single thought through, and that was one of the things I thought of and I would have to tell you when you woke up. Yes, it was completely a dick move on my part and for that, I apologize. Sincerely. But you have to understand, Joey, that if you and I are going to be involved in this mystery together, we need to care for each other and I knew you were going to worry about your parents and what they might think. Speaking as the guy who got the worst of the accident and was loaded with morphine directly afterwards.”  
I shake my head at him. I have no idea what to think right now.  
“Joey, listen to me—” He stands up only for his face to twist in pain. He clutches at his bad knee and almost falls onto the floor. “—listen. I know for a fact you love your parents, and they love you back. Even in my opiate laden state, I remembered that they love you more than anything in the world. So the last thing they need to hear is—their little boy was in a car accident in the big—” He grimaces. “—the big stinking city.”  
He groans and collapses onto his back right on the bed. I stand there before him with my hands pressed to my hips and the annoyed feeling still residing within me.  
“Could you—walk into this neighborhood here and get me some ibuprofen or something?” he stammers out.  
“Can I take a shower first?” I demand to him, chewing on my bottom lip.  
“I don't know if I can take another second of it,” he confesses. “You still have the twenty dollars I gave you before we flew out here on you?”  
“In my pocket.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright, fine. I'll be right back.”  
I close my coat and return back outside to the low hanging fog and the raw, heavy feeling of beckoning snow. I never would think a place like Seattle would experience snow, but if anything like everything that's happened to this point is possible, that might be possible, too.  
Even though I have my leather gloves back on, I've got my hands in my coat pockets as I head on down the cold hard sidewalk to the corner. I wonder what else is being hidden from me as I reach the corner and glance about the block. The cold wind is blowing through my black hair which is still damp from sweating: I close my coat even more to keep the chill at bay. I peer up at all the buildings here in this part of town, all of them looking almost identical with their black slate walls and their flickering blue neon lights on the sides. There is a little orange and yellow hut looking place right up the block from me with a sign out front reading “Mama's Mexican Kitchen.”  
But the street before me is stretching onward into the heart of downtown. The whole thing is tempting, but I can't do it just yet.  
Lars is in pain and I need to get him something. If only there's a drug store around here somewhere.  
There's a dumpster on the corner right in front of me. I wonder if Maya camped out there while she was here. Who knows and who knows if I'll ever know.  
But after looking both ways, I head on over to the other side of the street to meet up with the dumpster and the first thing that catches my eye is a small pile of empty orange pill bottles, complete with the white lids.  
No, I can't do that to Lars. He even said morphine made him do it.  
But as I'm moseying on closer to the pile and I crouch down for a better look at them, I notice the faint glimmers of blue neon inside one of the bottles. The label on another one facing me reads “cybernetic serum: the pain medicine of tomorrow. use only with caution and for the most intense of injuries. take only orally with water. copyright morlente medicine, a division of maxwell industries.”  
Hmm.  
Morlente Medicine? As in Maya's foster parents? It's also a division of Maxwell Industries, but at the same time, I also don't know where the nearest drugstore is and poor Lars is in agony. I pick up the one on the top to better examine the stuff that's inside. It's like black ink with pieces of blue glitter mixed into it. At least it's not toxic.  
I take it back with me to the hotel, although I'm not sure how this will fare for either of us, especially Lars. I return to the room to find Spence with no shirt on and a towel on his head, and Lars himself still laying on the bed. I swipe one of the little paper cups next to the coffee maker and take it into the tiny cramped bathroom to fill it with water. Carefully, I unscrew the lid from the bottle. It in fact smells like ink; and I drip two drops into the water where they dissolve and disappear at the snap of my fingers.  
I take it back to Lars for him to drink it up.  
“It's already dissolved,” I explain to him when he shows me a baffled look. He then nods and drinks down the whole cup of water. Breathing hard, his face twists into a smile which accentuates his little cheekbones.  
“Better?” I ask him.  
“Yes. Amazingly, yes. My knee doesn't hurt at all anymore.”  
“Okay. You guys need me I'm gonna be in the shower.”

****************************************

The next day, the first day of winter and the day the sky was almost pitch black as a result, Marcia and Sonia meet us outside of the hotel from the little trip down to Hoquiam, which is right outside of another little town of Aberdeen, which is where Nirvana hails from. As we're leaving Seattle and headed on southward, the neon lights glare at me in the rear view mirrors. Maybe it was just an unfortunate side effect down in New Orleans, like maybe it was just nothing more a coincidence the banana slugs and the spiders got so big, but I had nothing more than doubts about all the neon and all the seemingly heavy machinery arising here in the cozy pocket of Washington. Lars is as chirpy as ever, given he walked to the car practically dancing with his cane in hand. I still want a stroll around the heart of downtown before we're done here, though.  
Sonia, who's driving, takes the next exit off to Aberdeen, which will take us to Hoquiam. Such a small, backwoods little town, like Oswego if it didn't have such a tightly woven community surrounding the dingy parts and the power plant. Everything is gray, such that it sends a chill up my spine upon seeing it.  
But even as we get out of the car in the gravel parking lot, I turn my head to look at the blue and green glow against the dark sky from the city to the north of us. I had my doubts but I'll admit that that's kind of creepy, the otherwise natural darkness of the Pacific Northwest bathed in manmade light. Something about that…  
“Joey!” Sonia interrupts my train of thought. I turn to see her gesturing for me to follow them into this ramshackle white warehouse with a partially collapsed roof. And it takes me a minute to realize we're in a bar given there are still taps coming out of the walls. Even with a crowd in here, the whole place smells of mildew and stale beer. Reminds me of my cover bands.  
Within moments, the band emerges on their shabby little stage: the drummer with his thin long dark hair taking his seat behind the tiny kit, the gangly looking bassist with his fine dark hair and heavy raincoat, and then there was the guitarist with his long blond hair partially covering his face, wrapped faded plaid sweater, and holding a shabby guitar in hand. The neck of his guitar is switched over sides: he's a leftie.  
“Just a three piece?” I ask Sonia.  
“Just a three piece.”  
“Hello, everyone,” the bassist greets us through his tiny microphone. “We are Nirvana and I want to say that we're in the midst of making an album at the moment.”  
Some people in front of us cheer out: I notice two people near the front beginning to mosh. Such energy for such a little venue, my God.  
“This whole place stinks!” the bassist continues, wagging his finger. “It needs some bleach!”  
The guitarist joins in from his right.  
“I think 'oh, oh, oh' means 'shut up, Krist,'” he retorts to him, and that coaxes a laugh out of me.  
“This song is about a girl,” he announces to us.  
Oh.  
My.  
God.  
The grungest grunge that ever grunged right here. It's like a fuzzy Beatles song. Soundgarden has “Flower”, and they have this song. It must be a coincidence.  
I'm just totally guessing but it's like Seattle is trying to give me a sign. A sign that I need to do a little more to help Maya.


	18. (cry for the indian winter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Slipping through the wasted ground,  
> you’re so full of it.  
> All the way and down and out,  
> such a hypocrite.”  
> -”Powertrip”, Joey Belladonna (better known as that one song that makes St. Anger look like child’s play I shit you not)

December 21, 1988. Seattle, Washington.  
Nirvana's set lasted about twenty minutes and then afterwards, we returned to the hydrogen car and headed on back to Seattle, which is now in fully bathed in that blue neon even though the sun hasn't set behind the veil of clouds over our heads yet. Riding all the way back to Belltown, I can't stop thinking about that little three piece band. I can envision them and Soundgarden going places in the world. I don't know where they'll go from here but I'm sure it'll be good.  
The neon is even brighter than ever as we enter the little town of Sea-Tac. And then it hits me.  
“Do either of you ladies know if there's a recording studio here in the southern part of the city?” I ask Sonia and Marcia.  
“There is one,” Marcia recalls, her tone of voice unsure. “It's—” She gasps. “—right down here! Turn off, Sonia!”  
Sonia takes this next exit, interestingly on the left side, leading us off the freeway into this rather dim lit and cold looking neighborhood in the southern part of Seattle. The pavement on the street is rough and rugged dotted with the occasional pothole. The golden lights lining the street are shining into the car as we're moving along the road here. Aside from the few glints of neon here and there on the sides of the brick houses lining the street, everything reminds me of the little industrial looking neighborhoods in New York City, or better yet, Wellesley or Oswego. This is the one part of Seattle that hasn't stepped into the world of the future.  
At least I hope I isn't.  
I have my doubts about the cybernetic world to our right due to the fact Lars is feeling better in terms of pain, but I also have to bear in mind that my best friend is in the hospital back home in New York because of what I assume to be from all of this. It's a definite suggestion but I can't say anything for sure yet. Lars and I still have to make my way into the heart of the city in order to check it all out. I figure it can't be that much of a walk for us and if we get any looks, we can merely use the excuse that we were two of the hockey players who challenged those cyborgs the day before. It's not really an excuse as it is the actual truth, but whatever.  
Sonia pulls up to a stoplight and I peer out the window next to Spence and Lars. It's still quiet here, much too quiet to be anything anywhere remotely to a city. At least the City back East and Boston have a lot more nightlife to their fabric than all of this: this almost bothers me, like I wonder where all the people have vanished to when no one was looking. I peer out the windshield at the red light and Sonia glancing about the intersection.  
“Seriously?” says Spence.  
“I know, right?” Sonia agrees with him, looking both ways again. “There is literally no one here!”  
I catch the view of a street cleaner crossing the intersection right in front of us, crawling at a cautious but firm pace like one of those big desert tortoises. It reaches the right side of the intersection, and attaches itself onto the storm drain, and that's when the light turns green.  
“Seriously,” Spence repeats as we roll forward.  
“I guess so?” Marcia replies with a shrug of her shoulders. We pass under a wrought iron overpass even though the only other road to be seen is the freeway and we didn't even go underneath that. I peer out the window at the sight of it, at the rich navy blue sky on the other side of it: the arches and the inside of it all form into this intricate web of crosses, each of them the exact size and the exact perfect square shape. It's like a tapestry, a heavy metal tapestry that's about to light up in silver and pure gold for the night. This part of town is still within the twentieth century and I want to keep it that way. I don't ever want it to turn into the glowing blue and green monster that's nearby.  
Although Lars is feeling better! That little bottle of sparkly black sludge shit that dissolved in pure water is a miracle medicine for intense pain.  
No! I can't forget Brick! This industry is killing him!  
Ugh. Fuck.  
I only feel like recording my voice and then seeing if I can find people to play some instruments for me seeing as I can't afford a guitar or a piano of my own right now.  
Sonia veers off to the side of the road, right up next to the curb before a low slate building that resembles somewhat to a fire house.  
“Is this where Alice in Chains recorded their demos?” Lars asks her from right next to me.  
“This is the place,” she answers, tugging on the parking lever and switching off the hydrogen underneath us.  
I climb out first into the chilly afternoon: there's a cold wind emerging off of the nearby Puget Sound and I can make out the first plumes of lake effect type snow floating up from behind the low skyline of Sea-Tac. Or maybe it's just chimney smoke.  
I just want to do what I do best because this is killing me.  
I close my coat right as Marcia and Sonia climb out of the front seat in unison; the former shows me a friendly little smile and a lick of her lips. Yeah, yeah, we had lunch yesterday and she's definitely dialed back her advances towards me in the wake of it, but I guess it's still within her. I'll never forget the day she kissed me in the upholstery shop.  
She shuffles over to me with her hands stuffed inside of her coat pockets.  
“I didn't tell you,” she starts in a hushed voice, “watching you and the guys play against those robots yesterday was hot as hell.”  
“You actually think so?”  
“Yeah. Watching you on your skates with that stick outstretched before you… it was quite the sight to see. You sure know how to move about a hockey rink.”  
I shrug my shoulders at her as a gust of wind picks up a piece of her hair and tosses it right into her round face.  
“Been doing it for almost twenty years,” I explain to her. “Some days it's like just another day at the office, you know?”  
“That's how Sonia feels sometimes,” she answers.  
“Huh?” Sonia joins in from behind her.  
“Nothing,” she brushes her off.  
“Oookay—anyways, the front door is right around the side here, Joe.”  
“Alright. And all you guys come on in here, too—I think it's gonna rain soon.”  
“Might even snow,” Marcia adds.  
“Seattle gets snow?” Spence seems genuinely surprised by that.  
“Occasionally, yeah,” she continues, “Portland gets it more, though. You guys oughta talk to Matt and or Chris about the times flurries have fallen up here.”  
I lead the way to the right side of this building and from the dim light from the street and the afterglow of the city, I spot the door right down the wall from us. It really is like a fire house.  
I push open the door to reveal a pitch dark room: I grope at the wall to my right and feel the light switch.  
To the left of me is a rough looking brick wall lit up by a series of exposed long light bulbs shining golden light over the floor. Up against the wall is a plush dark brown corduroy couch and a low black wooden table topped with a ridiculously tall stack of cassette tapes. Over my head is the low hanging, cold looking smooth metal ceiling held up by narrow arches. I keep looking onward to find that we're underneath a balcony: out in the open is a vast cold concrete floor with nothing more than a single brass colored rug in the shape of an eye and a small spindly black stool right in the middle of it. To the right is some kind of silvery radiator looking thing with a thick black pipe coming out of it and attached to the wall: there's our heat.  
Meanwhile, there's something hanging from the ceiling.  
I stride on over to it only to find that it's a microphone. Right behind the radiator is the sound board, heavy, cumbersome, and the color of old brass. I put my fingers around the head of the microphone to better examine the silvery grating on it.  
Lars darts past me towards the sound board. I watch him duck down behind it, only to emerge within a few seconds with a pair of head phones.  
“Oughta get a drum kit in here,” Spence calls out from under the balcony.  
“I'll ask James and Kirk if there's any way we can get some guitar work on here,” Lars assures me with a wink and a smile.  
“We can ask Chris, Kim, Hiro, and Matt, too, if they're willing,” I add to him with a sly grin. Guess this is my own private studio now.  
I open my mouth and let out a low growl from the base of my throat. I set a hand on my stomach to feel my muscles relaxing.  
I breathe in and think about Maya and Brick. Then I catch the sound of the rain beginning to pound on the roof over our heads. I raise my voice using the help of my stomach muscles. I'm trying to sound louder than the rain.  
It's the winter solstice. The darkest day of the year.  
I feel the cold darkness around me, only to be accentuated by the golden light behind me. I feel it within me. I feel the darkness in my soul, the crystals of cold rising up from the frigid earth and making their stay inside of my bones. There's something burning and roaring around inside of me, like an old flame that's been buried alive and all but forgotten by the world. This flame is alive and well within me, within this body of mine.  
I figure that Lars, Chris, Kim, and I all have ancient roots. I'm Indian and Italian; meanwhile, Kim is other kind of Indian. Meanwhile, Lars hails from a kingdom rich in its own rite. But then there’s Chris, his eyes bearing a primeval soul much older than Lars and me glued together. I think about the solemn look on his face and hearing the power and the prowess within his voice. He's the one with the tie into the rest of the universe.  
I have him firmly in mind as I take out the notepad from the inner pocket of my coat. Lars messes around with some of the dials and the buttons on the sound board over there: it's old fashioned but sometimes we have to in order to get shit done. He points a finger at me and that's my cue to go forth with this raw demo.  
And I sing my heart out, like crying for the Indians. The cold metal and stone that surrounds me makes my voice sound hollow and lifeless but I can always do it again. It's just technically me after all. I put all my strength from my stomach and the lower side of my belly into my voice to where I think I almost sound like I'm crying.  
I'm crying for the winter and the burgeoning cyberworld that's leaving me with a choice: to embrace the fact it's helping Lars or remember that it might the thing that kills Maya, Brick, and myself. I come to a song I tentatively titled “Wake Me”, about all the times I lay awake in bed staring up at the ceiling and feeling the ghosts around me, and I bring the microphone right up to my mouth for more feeling. I close my eyes and sing it out, as loud as I can, to where my hips and my chest begin hurting. It's all coming out from somewhere, from somewhere so deep.  
I'm in there singing for about an hour until I reach the end of the notes. Lars then pushes a button and claps at me in standing ovation.  
I have my hands right on my stomach. I need to spit. Fuck. I don't think I ever sang at such a guttural level in my life.  
“Oh, Jesus, you okay?” Lars stops and gapes at me.  
“I sang too hard,” I reply to him, my voice breaking. My voice is gone and I'm in agony.  
“Let's get him something,” suggests Sonia and I feel her right behind me. I can hardly stand up it hurts so much.  
I'm in trouble now.


	19. (chris and nancy's place)

The pain in my stomach escaped from the one in my heart.  
Not even Spence with his arm around me is enough to comfort me.  
I wish my mom was here to help me.  
I wish Lupe was here to help me.  
Heck, I wish Ronnie James Dio was here to help me.  
My hair is dangling down over my shoulders and upon my chest, and over my face.  
I feel Spence right next to me, and I think Lars is next to me.  
Might be Sonia.  
I don't know.  
I don't know where we're going, just so long as it isn't the hospital in Syracuse.  
But wait, we're too far from Syracuse.  
At least I hope we are.  
The neon that surrounds us is as bright as day and is making everything into a blur.  
This pain is agonizing.  
I was singing way too hard, I'm sure of it.  
But it's too late now.  
I'm dead.  
Going to the hospital is going to kill me now if it didn't back in the City.  
I can only hear my own breathing and my own heartbeat, but I can't hear what Marcia is saying.  
We're going where?  
Please, no.  
Dear God, no.  
Not there.  
Not the hospital.  
They'll do to me what they did to Maya and Brick.  
And I still haven't figured out what happened to either of them.  
Spence sounds so far away even though his lips are so close to my ear.  
I feel the car turning off the freeway.  
I lift my head to find everything is a blur of black and neon blue.  
Oh my fucking God.  
Please, Sonia.  
Please, Lars.  
Please, whoever the hell is driving right now.  
Don't take me there.  
Please, don't.  
Don't—  
And—

I'm waking up to warm golden light bathing over me. Something warm and heavy covers me. There's something on my stomach. Something that feels like… gauze. But even though it's not as horrible as it was… then, I'm still in pain.  
I roll my head over to see a big heavy wooden coffee table right next to me. There's a paint palette resting on one corner, a stack of some art magazines, and an opened bag of chips. It smells like fresh brewed coffee in here.  
The hell? I roll my head the other way to see the back of a couch. I look right in front of me at a heavy quilt covering my body.  
Am I dead? No. If I was truly dead, I would've seen Death harvesting me before she takes me off to the afterlife. But I also remember that every time I do in fact see her, it doesn't mean I am in fact dead, just need a reality check.  
Nancy, her plump body accentuated by a fitted purple sweater and a short black skirt, walks into the room right then with a little white mug of coffee with her school's emblem on the side. She's about to walk on over to an armchair next to the couch when she sees my face.  
“Hey, there he is!” she declares. Chris emerges from the doorway behind her, already in his dark red flannel pajamas. He nods at me.  
“He's awake,” he says. I rub my eyes with one hand. I want to sit up but I don't know if the pain in my belly will come back if I do in fact do that.  
“Yeah, I'm awake,” I reply to him, feeling my voice break. “What happened?”  
“Marcia, Sonia, Spence, and Lars brought you here,” Nancy answers, taking a seat in the recliner behind me. “I guess you were in a ton of pain last night. Chris thought you got stabbed.” It almost did feel like I was stabbed now that I think about it.  
“Yeah, and then Lars said you sang way too hard and it really, really pulled a muscle in your stomach,” Chris adds.  
“Wait a minute,” I stop them. “Last night. It's morning?”  
“Indeed it is,” Nancy continues. “Almost eight thirty. I was about ready to wake you up to see if you wanted some coffee.”  
“They brought you here,” he says, pressing his hands to his hips, “'cause you were like 'not the hospital! Not the hospital!'”  
“Yeah, it was like you were scared shitless of going to the hospital. And Sonia was like 'okay, okay, we'll just go to Chris and Nancy's place.' We got a cup of chamomile tea in you and smeared some aloe and a little bit of the cyber serum right on your belly and put some gauze on it. And then you went right to sleep there on the couch. Chris put the blanket over you because you looked cold.”  
“You put some of that black glittery tar stuff on me?” My heart skips several beats at that.  
“Yeah. That stuff is like—a miracle elixir. Yeah, yeah, it's from the big cyber corporation running the city here but it does in fact work, though, Joe.”  
I groan in my throat. It's not really a deep pain now as it is a sore feeling. I hoist myself onto my elbows right underneath the blanket. I guess at some point I had taken off my shirt because I'm looking at my bare body under the blanket: I push it down to reveal the patch of white gauze stretched over my stomach.  
“How you doing there?” Chris asks me.  
“I dunno, let's see—” I push back a corner of the tape holding it down to my skin and then peel it off. The tape is still stuck to the left side of my skin when I lift the gauze off of me. My skin is as smooth as ever: there's no blemish, no bruise, nothing. The aloe and the serum did the trick for the worst part of the pain and disappeared while I was sleeping. Now here's just my bare skin on my flat ironing board of a belly.  
My fingertips caress over my skin: it's as soft and silky as ever, if not softer. That little combination softened me up.  
“My goodness, you look a lot better,” Nancy remarks: I turn my head to find she has stood to her feet for a better exam of me.  
“I feel better, too—like I'm sore, but it's nearly as intense.”  
“You also looked like you were about ready to faint,” Chris adds.  
“Yeah, you were like pale,” Nancy recalls, taking a sip of her coffee, “—all the color washed out of your face and all over your body. It was like something had sucked the life out of you. You almost looked like you were frozen, like you had hypothermia because your skin was as white as paper, even on your chest and your stomach. I remember asking Sonia if you accidentally fell into the Sound and you know—she said no.”  
I groan again and rub my eyes a second time.  
“Where's your bathroom?” I ask them, clearing my throat again.  
“Down the hall, second door on the left,” Chris advises me.  
“Okay—” I lift my legs out from under the heavy quilt to find I still have my pants on, which is good. I sit there for a second to straighten my back. Even though the pain was mostly right in my belly, I still have that memory of that car accident residing in my back. I raise my arms over my head to stretch a bit before I stand up.  
Nancy returns to the chair and Chris moves out of the way for me. I step out of this little living room into the rustic wooden kitchen: right in front of me is the hall leading back into this house, apartment, whatever.  
I soon find it's an apartment because I take a glimpse out the kitchen window over the sink at the sheer sight of the little rustic looking complex with the silvery fire escapes, kind of like the ones back in the City. I keep going into the hall and into their cozy little bathroom.  
I unzip my jeans.  
I swear, I have drunk more tea than coffee in the past month or so. Maybe that's why my skin's getting so soft as of late.  
What I don't understand, after everything that's happened the past two months, I'm only met with dead ends and close calls on my part. I just want to find out what happened to Maya and why my best friend is being subject to the most horrifying thing I have ever seen. It's almost as if I'm being pushed back every time I have a lead on something, either figuratively by some stupid thing coming up or literally like the flood waters down in New Orleans.  
Another thing I don't understand is when Angeline and I were over in Boston and Maya's foster parents were so friendly to me and her but not to each other. I also want to know why, since that cyber serum whatever the flip it is, is made under Mike's last name.  
I give myself a shake.  
“Hang on a second,” I say aloud. Nancy said I looked frozen. Frozen.  
Freeze dried food.  
The food of the future.  
The future.  
The future is burgeoning outside of this apartment.  
“If Molly knew how the banana slugs behaved—”  
Of course.  
Of course!  
THAT’S IT!  
Duh!  
I zip up and wash my hands, and return to the front room of the apartment to find Chris and Nancy nestled down in the recliner together, thus leaving the couch open for me to come back. They lift their heads to look at me.  
“Where did Lars and Spence go?” I ask them.  
“They went back to their room, I think,” Chris recalls; he's got his arm around her and so he's twirling a lock of Nancy's hair around his finger. I chew on my bottom lip and glance off to the side.  
“And Marcia and Sonia are up in Everett,” Nancy joins in before taking another sip of coffee. “They should be back here—in a couple of hours, though. Why, what's up?”  
“I need to tell Lars something.”


	20. (back to the watershed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Take that to the bank and call it a check,  
> Masked without a weapon.  
> I'm skinny as a spit pan,  
> dealing with the shit plan.  
> Playing with my bad hand:  
> just another rock band.”  
> -”Wattershed”, Foo Fighters

December 22, 1988. Seattle, Washington.  
I open up the curtains in time to behold the sight of Lars, Spence, and the girls bounding into the driveway down below. I turn to Nancy, who's got her arms folded over her chest. I'm sure this is the next step in figuring all of this out. It's all so obvious to me now, and it should've been obvious to me before now. Oh, well. Better late than never, I suppose.  
“They're here,” I tell her.  
“Okay.” She opens her arms for me. I hold her close to me and her arms go all the way around my body. “You guys be careful, okay?”  
“Of course.”  
“And you take care of yourself for me, too,” she adds, pulling back and running her hand down my stomach.  
“Thank you,” I tell her, “thank you for everything.”  
Chris strides into the front room right then, dressed in a flannel shirt and black pants, and his long black wavy hair drifting back from his head.  
“Catch you later, man,” he chirps at me.  
“Yeah, you too, Chris—we'll be back before either of you know it, though. I'm sure of it. And you guys take care of yourselves!”  
“Oh, we will,” he assures me, putting his arm around her.  
“I have to protect him, anyways,” she adds, leaning up to his neck for a little kiss. I then wheel around and reach for my coat hanging on the hook next to the door. The gloves and my pinky ring are once again in the pocket; I put the latter on once I have the coat on over me and then I slip on the gloves as I'm descending the stairs. A risky move on my part but one that'll get me into the car in time. Spence climbs out of the passenger seat next to Lars and heads for the back seat behind it. I duck into the car and before I can even so much as put on my seat belt, Lars steps on it and we lunge forward to the pavement in front of us so as to make a loop around the complex. The hydrogen never makes a sound as we go forth.  
“Joey, there's a raspberry danish in the back seat for you,” he begins as I buckle myself in. “Sonia has it.”  
I turn my head as she's reaching into a brown paper sack on her lap; she hands me the golden and crispy danish with the light glaze on the top accompanied by a white tissue paper.  
“Thank you,” I tell her as I take it and then, with my free hand, I take out my sunglasses from my coat pocket.  
“Okay, so we're going back to the airport because the plane leaves in about an hour,” Marcia explains. “Barney and Billy are already there, I guess.”  
“Okay, good,” I reply, taking a whiff of the danish first before eating it.  
“So, tell me,” Lars starts as we reach the street, “—how'd you figure this whole thing out again?”  
“Okay. It's simple.” I take a bite out of the danish. “Angeline and I had dinner at Maya's foster parents' house over in Boston a few weeks ago on Matt's birthday, and we found the house was totally advanced like how all of Seattle and the cafe we ate it in Ballard was totally advanced.”  
“Right.”  
“You know that medicine I gave you for your knee?”  
“Yes?”  
“It's made by Morlente Medicine, which—I guess?—is an offshoot of Maxwell Industries.”  
“Morlente as in Maya's foster parents,” he follows along as we pull onto the street.  
“Right! It's so stupidly simple that I can't believe I missed it, either.” I take another bite of the danish, which, despite being crispy on the outside, is light and fluffy on the inside, just how I want a danish to be. I swallow it down in order to speak again. “I've known Brick most of my life but I never knew what his parents did for a living. Do you see where I'm going with this?”  
“Brick's parents are in cahoots with Maya's foster parents?” Spence asks me.  
“Exactly! But this almost feels like a conspiracy, though. Like, why? Why would a couple of French Canadians want to go into business with them like that?”  
“Probably can't get that in Quebec?” Lars suggests.  
“Eh, who knows, really. I only sort of knew his parents because we were more intent on playing hockey and hanging out with each other whereas they were more intent on working.”  
“But why would Brick's parents be a part of something that's so intent on killing him, though?” Spence wonders aloud. “That doesn’t make any sense.”  
“I know, that's like the one thing that's throwing me, though,” I point out, licking some raspberry off my finger. “Why would his parents be a part of something so nefarious?”  
“Wait a minute,” Lars stops me as we’re pulling up to a low hanging stoplight. “Are you telling me the shit you gave me for my knee is made by the same people who are Maya’s foster parents and are in cahoots with the same company that’s probably killing your best friend?”  
“Yes,” I answer as hard as it is to answer that.  
“And are you telling me the exact same shit you gave me for my knee is made by the same people who are Maya’s foster parents and are in cahoots with the same company that’s probably killing your best friend is the same shit Nancy rubbed on your belly after you were moaning and groaning in utter agony last night for that pain?”  
“...yes.”  
“What the serious—fucking what?”  
“That’s what I’m wondering, too. But remember, Lars, it’s an offshoot from the parent company.”  
“Yes, but—I remember distinctly it looking like some kind of... black tar with glimmers in it. Like neon glimmers.” The light turns green and we roll on forward with the sun in our eyes. Lars scoffs and tugs down the visor.  
“Right, and their house is also full of the same millennia-ahead-of-everyone high tech that was in the cafe we ate at in Ballard when I first met Soundgarden. Tell me none of that is a coincidence.” I take another bite from the danish and catch a little bit of crumbs which fell from the corner of my mouth. “This is a really good danish, by the way.”  
“Courtesy of Marcia,” Sonia pipes up.  
“Really?”  
“Smell the magic, Joseph,” Marcia replies. “Smell the magic.”  
“I taste it, too.” Marcia really is not that bad. She just needs a little love, and I’m giving it to her by gobbling up this lovely danish before we reach the airport.  
“Alright, so the three of us and the Greys,” Lars starts again, “are heading back to New York, and Marcia and Sonia are taking the car back up to Everett with them.”  
“You’re not going to Portland?” I ask him, and then I remember. “Oh, right, right, right.”  
“Yeah, it’s--yeah.” He shrugs at me. “And we still didn’t take a closer look at the heart of Seattle, too. Dammit!” He slaps the edge of the steering wheel.  
“Probably don’t need to at this point, dude,” says Spence. “Joey’s pretty much got this in the bag.”  
“I wouldn’t be so confident of that, though, Spence,” I point out to him as I’m dabbing my mouth with the paper, “I just answered one part of this whole puzzle and it only raised a metric shitload more questions. And even then I’m not feeling too good about answering that.”  
“Why’s that?” Lars flashes me a raised eyebrow before turning back to face the road.  
“Well, there’s the whole thing with Maya. I just answered what could be behind Brick. I figured out my best friend but I still have no idea what’s going on with her.”  
“She does have that scar on her forehead,” Lars points out.  
“Right. That’s what I’m talking about.” We fall into silence for a moment as we board onto the freeway and head on down to Sea-Tac. And then, I watch Lars knit his eyebrows together and cock his head to the side as if listening for something. Yeah, I’ve got a weird feeling, too.  
“Hang on, hang on--” He closes his eyes. “You don’t think--”  
I turn my head to see the disgusted look on his face, and I shake my head.  
“No way,” I almost blurt out.  
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. No. No. No. No. No.”  
“Brick’s parents are nice people,” I quip at him, flexing my fingers inside of my gloves.  
“They really are,” Spence joins in.  
“Distant, but they are in fact nice people. They wouldn’t--”  
“No,” Lars sputters out.  
“They can’t,” I continue as the sign for the exit to the airport enters our view.  
“No.”  
“They can’t!”  
“No!”  
“They can’t! They couldn’t! They didn’t!”  
“No!” Lars shrieks, slamming his hands on the edge of the steering wheel. “No! Nein! Ingen! Ingen! No! No!”  
“They did!” Marcia and Sonia shout in unison.  
“Oh my gracious God,” I groan out, running my leather-bound fingers through my hair before peering out the window. “It’s impossible. It’s just--there’s no way. They couldn’t do it to her.”  
“But they somehow did!” Lars exclaims. I let out a low whistle.  
“Let’s just go back to New York,” I grumble to him. “We’ll--figure out where to go from here while we’re on the plane.”  
Once we’re at the airport, Lars, Spence, and I climb out of the car and bide Marcia and Sonia good-bye for now, and head on inside to meet up with Barney and Billy at our terminal. Right before we board the plane, Lars takes something out of the lush interior of his coat and shows it to me: a little dark grey square with nothing on it.  
“What’s this?” I ask him, taking it from him.  
“Your voice.” And then it dawns on me.  
“Oh, right!”  
“I can probably help you with production, too, if you’d like. I’ve done it thrice before.” His breath smells sweet, like he just had a danish himself before picking me up. Well, he does in fact have history with Marcia and Sonia.   
We step onto the plane and find our seats in the front of coach class, right behind first class. Some day I’ll be up there.  
There is one person I want to speak to when we get back to New York and that’s of course Maya. My hope is she can give me some more insight because I’m dying here. There’s so much here and I just figured one aspect of the whole thing, and I almost don’t even know where to begin with all of it. I hope I can get her to talk. And if I can’t get her to talk, I hope I can get her to eat something. It’ll serve her right for stuffing me silly that one time, too.  
But the very first thing I want to do before I do anything is do laundry. I’m not going to my parents’ house for Christmas looking like I can barely dress myself.  
When I finally return home at about mid-afternoon, I head on down the hall to turn on the thermostat and set down my things. I take off my coat followed by my shirt.  
Something stops me.  
I turn my shirt inside out and bring my nose to the fabric that was right over my belly. It smells sweet, like sugar. It’s not from the danish, that’s for sure, given the smell is on the inside.  
I think back to when I dissolved some of the serum in a glass of water for Lars’ knee. I remember, albeit a vague memory, that it’s only to be taken orally with some water. Nancy rubbed something that’s only to be taken orally with water on my belly along with some aloe. Either it was the aloe and the tea alone that did the trick for my pain, and that cybernetic serum shit is a phony, or someone else is lying to me now.  
But the sweet smell is so clear and crisp in my nose: it’s like someone burned some sugar and poured the caramelization on the inside of my shirt and never managed to scrub out the smell.  
That cybernetic serum shit is a phony.  
“Placebo,” I mutter aloud, rubbing my bare stomach with my hand even though it’s still kind of sore and not in the same agonizing pain from last night. “And someone else is lying to me.”


	21. (her name is candace...)

December 24, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
There's a snowstorm outside right now and I don't know if I can make it down to Camillus to be with my parents in my piece of crap car. I'm gonna try and do it anyway because I promised my mom I'd be there to spend a couple of nights with them. I'm putting on my warmest jeans and my thickest socks, and my big black boots. I want to try and get those big shiny black Doc Martens that Chris has, if not for myself for Christmas then some time in the new year.  
As I'm putting on a clean shirt and a black sweater my grandma gave me a couple of years ago, I have a chill run down my spine and around my waist. I take a glance down at the sight of milky white arms clothed in black tatters wrapping around my waist. Her fingers are gliding up on the inside of my shirt and onto my bare skin. She's pushing up my shirt and proceeding to fondle my chest.  
“Hi, Nerissa,” I greet her as her delicate touch on my nipples sends yet another round of chills down my back.  
I feel her face close in to the side of my neck. The hair on the back of my neck stands up at her touch.  
“You're as cold as ice, my little undead lady,” I tell her as my teeth start to chatter.  
“Stay with me,” she whispers into my ear. “Slim and lush boy.”  
“I can't, though. I have to be at my parents' house before dinner time and it's gonna get dark soon and this snow is gonna worse if I don't boogie out quick enough.”  
“It's cold outside.”  
“I know. That—That's why I'm dressing warm. Holy hell, your body's cold.”  
“Take the file.”  
“Huh?” I turn my head to face her and her lovely pale white face staring back at me.  
“The file the lady gave you.”  
“You mean—the information about Maya that Angeline gave me?” It's an odd thing to ask of me, and from her no less.  
“Yes—” she whispers into my face. She brings her lips close to mine but before she comes any closer to me, I watch her inky black hair streak back from the back of her head and vanish into faint vapors. Her whole body follows suit, and I'm left there with my shirt and my sweater pushed up to my chest.  
There are all those questions I have pertaining to Maya now, and I think she and Mr. Lang in particular foresaw it when I found out the cybernetic serum stuff is nothing but sugar water. There's an even bigger question there, like why parade it as that sort of thing only to dupe me into thinking its the real thing? I have too many questions now, but at the same time I trust Nerissa on this one. She does like to touch me, after all. I need to trust an entity that likes to touch me.  
I pull down my shirt and my sweater, and scurry back into the front room, where Mr. Lang is seated hunched over in the recliner. Drifting in and out of the dim light coming in through my window in a haze of silver and white, he nods at me as I enter the room in search of the file folder Angeline gave me.  
“Hey, Mr. Lang, do you know where I put that folder?” I ask him, making a square shape with my index fingers and my thumbs. “The one I brought home here from New York City a few weeks ago?”  
“Check your coat, son,” he replies in a hollow voice. I look over at my big overcoat over the back of the chair in my little kitchenette. And then I remember I set it down there on the seat of the chair.  
I pick it up from there and open it up. Taped to the inside of the folder is Angeline's office phone number plus her home number.  
Call her if I have any questions.  
Well, I have lots of them, but I don't know if she can answer all of them as of yet.  
I look over at the first page and I recognize Maya's face in the photograph in the upper left corner of the paper.  
Maya Isabelle Sorensen, born the seventeenth of May twenty four going on twenty five years ago to Greta and Marcus Sorensen, a couple of Norwegian immigrants, in Nottingham, England. She's the author of underground zines After the Watershed and a short lived anthological one called Angelfish.  
Okay, so she might be telling the truth after all.  
Put in foster care as a toddler here in the United States… okay, yeah, yeah, Molly's telling the truth.  
Her foster sister's name is Candace. Candace Bradley, yet another writer.  
Molly and Candace took her in from…  
Wait a minute.  
Molly told me and Lars that they took her in from New Orleans, not New York.  
This is an official document, too, brought out from underneath the red tape.  
What am I going to believe more?  
I swear to God.  
It says here that Maya had been reported missing from their place in New York City almost two years after she was adopted. And then it says she ran away from home. A young kid ran away almost a thousand miles from home, probably with Delphine and that other guy. It was there in New Orleans they picked her up because she was bunking out at a church and they took her home to a better place, and that would be the northern edge of Boston, where her foster parents live now.  
It also says here that Candace left Boston when she was sixteen to pursue a writing career and that was when Maya started acting up on top of that. She went off to New York and then flew off to… Copenhagen?  
Copenhagen. Denmark.  
She ran off to Lars' neck of the woods, for a long time no less, and then returned to the States not even a year ago, and there's her address. I know exactly where that is, too, because Soundgarden played near there when I saw them again and Anthrax hangs out there. So nothing about Molly or Maya's stories make any sense whatsoever. I wonder why, though. And something tells me it's not because of her foster sister, either. Could be the quarreling between her mom and her stepdad but I won't know unless I ask Candace first.  
I close the folder, and set it down on the table, and scoop up my coat from the back of the chair.  
“She's in New York City now,” I mutter aloud as I put on the coat. “I guess I'm gonna have to pay her a visit.” I fasten the buttons and then tug on the lapels of my coat to better keep in the warmth of my body as Vera drifts up from the darkness right in front of me, her eyes wide and cavernous like a pair of black holes. Mr. Lang is still over in the recliner on the other side of the room, and still fading in and out with the changing light.  
“The snow is bad,” Vera squeaks out at me in an echoey voice.  
“I'll be careful, though,” I assure her, reaching into my pockets for my leather gloves. I return to my room for my scarf, and tie it around my neck, and cram it down the inside of my coat. I return to the front of my apartment for my car key on the stand next to the recliner.  
“Watch for the darkness,” Mr. Lang tells me in a voice that's fading out into silence.  
“Of course, Mr. Lang. Always. I'll be back soon, though. I swear.” I pick up the key and I step outside to the raging lake effect snow. I tug the scarf up over my face before I lock the deadbolt and proceed on to my car. The walkway already has small wet looking patches of black ice here and there and, careful not to slip and fall on my ass, I walk along on my toes in the parts I can tell have no ice. I round the corner into the garage where I had parked my car, right smack in the middle so I can walk over dry pavement.  
Drive like the whole thing is a Faberge egg, and you've got another one underneath the brake pedal, and pray that you don't skid right into a stack of serpentine white wires like the pile next to the passenger door.  
Wait, what?  
Once I'm in my car and I fire it up and let it idle for a moment before I turn on the heat, I take a look at the massive pile of pure white wires in the space next to me. I can make out tiny drop shaped lights embedded inside of the cords, each of them dark but each of them with a dark blue tone to them. Before I push down the parking lever, I spot a faint piece of writing on the side of one of the wires.  
“MAXWELL INDUSTRIES. SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.”  
Oh, hell no. Oh, you've got to be kidding me.  
It takes me so off guard that I almost didn't realize I hadn't put this thing into reverse.  
They're coming here. They're gonna move into upstate New York and light the place up in bright blue neon, even after what happened to Brick.


	22. (the ghostly subway)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day,  
> upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way.  
> When all at once a mighty herd of red eyed cows he saw  
> a-plowing through the ragged sky and up the cloudy draw.”  
> -”Ghost Riders in the Sky”, Johnny Cash

December 26, 1988. Camillus, New York.  
I had woke up the morning after Christmas in my parents' house and stuck around for breakfast until I told them I had to go all the way to the City to tend to something important. I swore it was important and it in fact is important.  
After much insisting from my mom, I finally came clean with the both of them on what has been going with me, telling them about the night I found Maya to everything that's happened to this point. I worried a little about neither of them believing me, but I worried more about the roads being open for me after Syracuse.  
But much to my relief, they both believed me.  
My mom put her arms around me and told me she was proud of me for being such a good boy and doing the right thing for her. My dad told me it was one of the best things I could have done.  
To which I say…  
PHEW!  
That's a relief.  
I worried about them not buying into the whole thing with the arrowhead pendant, but my mom recalled that I live with four ghosts and we have our heritage from a culture that revolves around the spirit world so nothing is too far fetched for her. I told them that Candace lives in New York City and I know exactly where she lives; my dad offered to come with me but he decided not to by the time I wanted to leave.  
So here I am driving out to the City on this barely open highway, by myself, in my pile of potato salad that's my car. A machine that's not firing on all cylinders, has a dashboard that's held together with electrician's tape, guzzles fuel like it's going out of style, has a pair of seats that might fall apart if I even so much as look at them funny, and overall makes me yearn for a hydrogen car of my own. At least the heater works, otherwise I've got to sell this thing for scrap and vouch for something else with the money I make off of it. I am officially torn about the whole technology of the future thing now. I can see it do wonders for the world at large, but I can also see it fall down right square on its head.  
And I can't help but think about the placebos I found in Seattle for Lars, and the one that Nancy rubbed on me.  
It's almost as if someone put them there for me to find, given it was a neat little pile next to a dumpster.  
A dumpster.  
Hmmm.  
Thin little white wisps of snow drift over the pavement as I near Monticello followed by the outskirts of the City. The tallest buildings break through the gray tapestry before me as I cross the river: within not even a week, the ball will drop in Time Square. I know exactly where she lives.  
I wonder what she's like as I'm thinking of how I'm going to introduce myself to her.  
Hi, I'm the guy who found your sister in my home town, battered, shook, and bound at the ankles and it looks like someone performed some kind of surgery on her brain because she's not eating and she's back at your parents' house. Is there any way you and I could find common ground with one another?  
Jesus clap carrying Christ, I'm gonna have my work cut out for me. She's a writer, for God's sake. She might be a rather successful one at that, too, given she's spent the past decade in Copenhagen and then had the money to find a nice place in the heart of Manhattan. She's gonna judge the snot out of me, 'cause what the hell am I? A bum hick with nothing to show other than a crappy car, a demo tape with me screeching on it so hard and loud that it sounds like someone hooked my nipples to a car battery, and a bunch of girls on my meatloaf. I've got absolutely nothing on Candace Bradley!  
I flash back when Maya and I drove back to Oswego together. There's just something so incredibly twisted about that now that I really give it some thought. She doesn't eat but she stuffs me silly and then kisses me around the belt. That bugs me. That bugs me a lot.  
There's something about Maya, like she's definitely hiding something from me. And not from the obvious fact that she's hiding her history from me, but there's another nuance to her.  
I've got a bunch of girls on me, including Nerissa, the ghost of a dead woman who killed herself. She kind of looks like Maya, albeit rounder, a lot fuller, and quite a bit sexier. But she's got the black hair and the pale skin.  
And then there's that weird apparition I kept seeing at the hockey rink. What in the hell is up with that?  
Maybe… no. There's no way. Maya and Nerissa are the same person? Like part of her splintered off and died and became Nerissa? And Maya is the leftover piece, wandering alone and wasting away and refusing any help. That's not a bad guess, especially since that's how the Man in Black came to fruition. But James is still alive and well, as far as I know.  
It's possible, and the spirit world has a funny way of operating as far as my own experience with it goes about.  
I'm reaching the outskirts of Yonkers when the check engine light pops on my dashboard. I'm almost there anyways. It can't be that bad. Can it?  
Yes.  
I don't even reach the Bronx. The stupid thing sputters and dies right next to the curb outside of a cute little art gallery with red and white pinstriped curtains pulled over the front window for the day. I pull off to the side to make sure it's not in the middle of the pavement. I turn the key and the ignition gives me nothing but a click. An empty, hollow click.  
“Damn it,” I mutter aloud. Since the engine isn't on, I lost the heat. It's getting cold fast, too, with the inside of the windshield already fogging up.  
“You're gonna make me walk, aren't you?” I grumble into the steering wheel. I click it a couple more times before slamming my hands onto the edge of the steering wheel.  
“Piece of shit—stupid piece of shit!” I clutch onto the key with one hand and tug the scarf over my lips and the tip of my nose with the other, and then I climb out into the raw New York cold. I lock the doors before heading on over to the sidewalk and striding down with my hands stuffed firmly into my pockets.  
Tiny flurries drift down from the heavy gray sky overhead and into the roots of my hair atop my head. God, it's so cold.  
I reach the corner and glance both ways again. It's the day Maya picked me up and took me back upstate all over again, except I'm going all the way down to Manhattan this time around. Onlookers bundled down in their cozy warm reliable cars for the day after Christmas probably don't even know that the young black haired Injun man of middle height walking down the street looking like he's about blow away used to sing for Anthrax. The snow is silencing him, forcing him to cover his face with his scarf. No tears to be seen, other than my own from the frigid cold wind against the crown of my head. I am still young, and yet I feel so old with all of this snow beating me back.  
There is the subway, though. That can take me all the way to Manhattan.  
In fact, once I cross the street, I recognize the wrought iron fence in a square of the sidewalk in front of me.  
I've got nothing else and I have no other means of reaching Candace.  
Through the flurries, I spot a creamy beige sign on the brick wall as I'm descending the stairs. In big cursive black letters, it reads: “beware of ghosts, protect your children at all times!”  
Wait a minute. Ghosts haunt the subways? I didn't know that. All the times I've been here for Anthrax and not one time did this happen.  
Once I'm inside of the station, pale brick walls and cold spindly brass making up the gates and everything, I tug down the scarf in order to better breathe. I open my lips and let out a low sigh. To my right is a man who's hobbling along with a black cane. And then I recognize his long hair, his big coat wrapping and protecting his plump body from the cold, and of course the scruff on his face.  
“Hey!” Lars calls out to me in a broken voice.  
“Hey, I know you,” I greet him, befuddled as we walk up to each other. “What're you doing here?”  
“I'm going to meet up with Candace, Maya's sister.”  
“That's what I'm doing.”  
“I'm also going to do something for my birthday today.”  
“Oh, happy birthday, man.”  
“Thank you.” He frowns at me. “You look cold.”  
“Freezin', and I'm from upstate.” I rustle my coat and shake my head about to get the snow out of my hair. “My car broke down a few blocks from here, so here I am taking the subway down to Grand Central.”  
“Ugh. I took a cab here. My knee started hurting again, too, from the cold.”  
“Yeah, you know that medicine I gave you in Seattle?”  
“The same shit Chris and Nancy gave you after you pulled a muscle? Yeah, that's the one. What about it?”  
“It's a placebo.”  
He gapes at me.  
“It's a placebo?”  
“Yeah. I found out taking off my shirt after I got home the other day, thinking 'why does this smell like sugar?' All I could think was it was a placebo. Good news is my stomach doesn't so much anymore.”  
“Wow.” Lars shakes his head at that as he buys the both of us a ticket; he hands it to me before we pass through the slender black iron gates into the cold platform with a floor made of brass and silver mosaic stretching underneath us. Our boots are making a sound that's akin to horse hooves all the way to the middle of the platform. He's to the left of me as we're making our way through this nearly deserted station: aside from the security guard in his booth and a few other people, it's just us in here.  
“Where'd you find the medicine you gave me?” he asks me as we stop right next to a shabby looking black metal bench. The whole tunnel on either side of us is pitch black and cavernous, and not to mention, freezing cold. The whole place smells like mud. I know the unsettling sensation, that creeping chill across the skin anywhere, though.  
“It was a part of a little pile next to a dumpster,” I explain to him, adjusting my scarf. “Like a pile of those—little pill bottles. Perfect pile, too.”  
“Hm. Hang on, you don't think—”  
“It's possible. I mean, she was there after all—” He nudges me, which in turn stops me right in my place.  
“Joey—” He swallows and I notice his pupils dilating like giant black ink drops. “Joey, that's not the train, is it?”  
I shuffle around to see a glimmer of blue emerging out of the darkness in the right side of the tunnel. No way that's the subway train: it's too globular. I recognize the shape of a head at the top, followed by a body clothed in rags and fancy shoes drifting over the railroad tracks and the shabby wires down below. The blue fades into some kind of oddball brownish color. The boy is practically glowing and radiating against the total darkness in the tunnel behind him. But his arms, which are raised up as if he's groping about and finding his way, end at the wrists. His wrists are flat, as if something or someone had made a clean cut across his wrists.  
Add to this he's faceless. Not a single feature on his face one.  
He's faceless and handless.  
“Wheee—ere are his hands?” I can hardly speak as I clutch onto the front of Lars' coat.  
“Forget his hands, where the hell is his face!”  
“Oh, my God—” He floats closer and closer to us in total silence until he's right beneath us, down below the mosaic floor of the platform. I glance up at the tile wall across the way, and the soap colored tiles frosting over at his presence. He raises his arms to us, as if giving us something, but with no hands.  
“I…” Lars stammers, holding onto me. “I don't know and—there's the train.” I turn my head the other way to see the cold metal subway train lumbering into the station from the tunnel to the left of us. We take a step back away from the edge. The flat end of the train hits the boy and he vanishes into nothing. Lars and I gape at one another as the train slows to a stop right in front of us.  
“The subway's haunted,” he remarks as a pair of double doors slide up in front of us.  
“Indeed it is. Gonna be quite the ride down to Grand Central.”


	23. (the manhattan affair)

December 26, 1988. Somewhere underneath the northern side of New York City.  
I can't shake the image of the boy with no hands from my mind as we're rolling along the pitch dark railways underneath the City, from his lack of a face to the fact he had no hands which were cut clean off at the wrists.  
Okay, I'm curious about him now, and also the fact that the subways are indeed haunted. I wonder what else lingers in the wires and cables of these black stone tunnels. If the boy with no hands is just one example, I can only imagine what other type of spirits are here. Could this be where Mrs. Snow hides out during the summer months? That would be understandable, given it's cool and dark down here where it's as hot as a rain forest back up north.  
I hold onto the rung over the crown of my head; Lars is huddled right up next to me with the collar of his coat popped up towards his face. He has his left hand stuffed into his coat pocket and his right arm pressed up against his body as he's holding onto his cane: seems rather pointless given it's nice and warm in here from the heater vents overhead at the moment. It's just us here on this car: there's an elderly couple in the one in front of us and a couple of other people in the one behind us. Awful quiet here in the big city, especially given it's the day after Christmas.  
“You know, there's a recording studio over in Rochester,” Lars breaks the silence right then.  
“Oh, yeah, that's right! Music America!”  
“I could probably get you some space there in the new year… we recorded Kill 'Em All there. In about two weeks, no less. I just now thought of that, too.”  
“Okay. Maybe I'll ring them up once all is said and done here. What I want to know is—and I was thinking about this on the way over here, too—what're we gonna say to Candace?”  
“What're we gonna say to Candace?” he echoes.  
“Yeah, like—how are we gonna introduce ourselves to her? 'Cause the whole time I was thinking 'man… she's a writer. She's gonna want a proper intro otherwise we're just come across as a couple of goons off the street.'”  
“Well, you are not wrong about that, Joey,” he assures me, “arguably speaking, we are a couple of goons off the street. I took a cab and your car broke down. We came off the street, but—you've read about Candace, haven't you? How Maya was going around looking for her and everything?”  
“Yeah, she's Maya's foster sister, and she left home when she was sixteen, and ran off to Denmark.”  
“Hang on, hang on—to Denmark?”  
“Yeah, that's what the—” I stop myself. And then it dawns on me. “Ah, shit.”  
“What's the matter?”  
“I left the file folder in my car. It's under the seat, too.”  
“Wait, what file folder?”  
“After Angeline and I were at the Morlente's house in Boston, she gave me a file folder filled with everything that she and Dominique have found about Maya and also Candace. I took it with me when I went to my parents' house on Christmas Eve and I stuck it under my seat 'cause I—didn't wanna keep it in my coat forever.” I refrain myself from telling him about the copy of After the Watershed Maya had given me the night of the accident.  
“Did you at least lock the car?” he asks me.  
“Yes.”  
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”  
“Anyways, that's one of the things I read about Candace. Everything else that we heard about her was totally made up.”  
“Huh. Wow. She was in Denmark.”  
“Yep, Copenhagen. She was laying low there for the greater part of a decade and came back here to the States not even a year ago.”  
“See, I got a phone call from Dominique telling me Angeline told her that Candace is here in New York City and then she gave me the address. I wanted to come here for my birthday today and I wondered if you were up for it, so I called your place just two days ago and didn't get a reply, and I only assumed that you had already left.”  
“Nah, I was down in Camillus spending Christmas with my parents,” I point out. “You must've just missed me, too, 'cause I didn't hear my phone ring at all. Wait. Two days ago? When'd you call me then?”  
“It was like—middle of the day, like lunchtime. You didn't hear the phone ring at all?”  
“Not one time.”  
He knits his eyebrows at me and the screech of the brakes catches my ear. We must be getting close to Grand Central. I let go of the rung over my head and flex my leather clad fingers.  
Indeed, I see the first glimmers of golden light around a corner in the tunnel.  
Within a matter of seconds, we're bathed in the rustic warmth and spindly high arches of the Grand Central Terminal. It's always exactly how I picture it, from the brass pipes jutting out of the walls and leading down to the furnaces underneath the hard slate floor, the cold metal over our heads, the frosty glass in the windows, the heavy dark oak wood in the railings, and the partially shiny silvery machines here and there down on the floor. Next to every single hinge is a set of gears like the ones we see on the fire escapes. Each of the platforms is made of clean brick and reinforced gilded poles. Everything either has a brassy sheen to it or has a great deal of gilding to it, even the big black and white clock perched over the ticket booth. As the train is grinding to a stop, I can see the snow outside of the station has picked up. Well, at least we don't have walk far.  
The double doors open and Lars and I step out of the car into the cozy warm train station. I almost don't want to leave here and head out into the snow given it's so warm and comfy. But we're on a mission of sorts.  
As we're walking across the floor to the big doors on the other side, I take a glimpse up at the high ceiling. I usually picture every inch of Grand Central being so clean that I could probably eat my grandma's lasagna off of the floor. It's the shiny, polished metal and brick and mortar corner of the otherwise rusted and stone raw City.  
But I'm seeing a lot of… stringy kind of stuff hanging off the particularly high parts of the ceiling. It looks like cobwebs, but it's not, though. It almost reminds me of that little bit of lace I found on the lampshade in my living room that one time. After Maya cleaned my apartment, she missed that little piece of what resembled to lace. That's what this stuff looks like.  
More of that lacy sort of stuff. Stuff that looks like a big bundle of cobwebs dangling down from the rafters.  
Makes me wonder now…  
“Joey, this way!”  
I drop my gaze down to find Lars guiding me away from the the line into the ticket booth, which I was about to walk into. He leads me to the front doors, and I tug my scarf over my face once again. Lars covers his face with the collar of his coat as we proceed to walk down the snow covered sidewalk.  
“So where does she live again?” he calls out to me over the noise in the street.  
And I point up the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure this is the right way: I recognize neighborhood after hanging out here with Anthrax and of course from the Soundgarden show. And there's the bar that we went to, the one Maya works at and resembles to an ice cream parlor. I lead Lars to the building next door, an apartment building with a low, partially collapsed stairwell and a long string of gear powered fire escapes running up the walls. I push open the black wooden front door and we're in the warm front lobby with a pair of elevators on one side of the room. I pull the scarf down and give my head a shake as we head on to the doors closest to us.  
“Let's see, she lives on the fourth floor,” I recall from the file folder. “Can't remember the number, though.” I reach out to push the upward button .  
“Never been in an apartment building that doesn't have a door man before,” Lars mutters aloud.  
“I know. It's… kind of unsettling, actually. How easy it was for us to get in.”  
The doors open and we step inside the dim lit wooden elevator. The cables above the ceiling squeak at the feeling of our combined weight, and it makes me a little nervous. I lean against the narrow brass railing as Lars pushes the button for the fourth floor. The doors close and the rickety thing lifts up the shaft: I hear the gears grinding down below at the bottom of the shaft.  
“Man, this thing has seen some better days,” he remarks at the stains and the rust on the railing behind me.  
“Yeah, no shit! I pity the poor bastard who's over two hundred pounds who's gotta commute with this sort of thing on a regular basis.”  
“I think the two of us combined are over two hundred pounds.”  
“Yeah, I think we are. This thing sounds like it's struggling.” I swallow down at that thought.  
But within time, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors grind open. Lars darts out first and then I follow him into the hallway with the ash gray walls and the pitch black carpet. There's nothing lighting this place save for a row of golden light bulbs surrounded by silver wires on the ceiling over our heads. The doors slide shut behind me and we glance either way down the corridor.  
“This is it?” he wonders aloud.  
“Yeah.”  
“There are no doors, though.”  
“There is one way the hell down there, though—” I point down the left side of the corridor and I lead him all the way down the hard black carpet, all the way to the very end, where there's a black door contrasting the ash gray. He ducks around me to reach the door first.  
“You wanna knock or should I do it?” I ask him.  
“I'll do it,” he offers me. He raises a hand and knocks three times on the panel right in front of his face. I linger right behind him with my hair still soaking wet from the snow. I give my head another shake when there's a soft click on the other side, and we're greeted by a short, kinda chubby young lady with reddish brown hair and wrapped in a black cardigan. She's got a round, full face, an upturned nose, and big eyes that look like they're about to leak tears at any given second.  
“Yes?” she greets us in a gentle voice. “Can I help you guys?”  
“Hello, Candace,” Lars replies. “My name is Lars, and this is Joey. Er, we wanna talk to you about your sister.”  
She knits her eyebrows together at the sound of that.  
“Maya? Did—something happen to her?”  
“A number of things happened to her,” I explain.  
“We,” Lars starts again, “have had some help of the New York Times and a young, aspiring journalist in Seattle in figuring things out because it's better if we do it and—not have to deal with the police.”  
“Oh, that's—I totally get that.” She closes her sweater over her prominent chest. “Um, please, come on in! You guys want some coffee? You look cold.”  
“Yes, please!” I take it up as we step inside her little studio apartment, the walls of which are painted a nice soft green. There's a little soft blue sofa right in front of us next to a small black bookshelf chock full of books and a tall bright red floor lamp that's lighting the whole front room here in soft yellow light. On the other side of the lamp is a door hanging ajar: figure that's her bedroom. I turn to find a row of hooks next to the door once I close it behind me. She's got all manner of knick knacks and things on her shelves, including a little bamboo plant in one corner of the room, right next to a heavy writing desk with a typewriter in the middle of it.  
“Hang up your coats, take off your boots, and make yourselves at home here,” she encourages us as she walks into the kitchen right in front of us. I strip off my coat and take the hook closest to the door; I sling my scarf over the collar and, once I make sure it's not going to fall onto the floor, I take off my gloves and cram them into the left pocket. It's nice and warm in here so I unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt.  
“So how'd you guys find Maya?” Candace starts us off as she takes a couple of mugs out of one of the cabinets.  
“Well, actually it was me who found her,” I tell her, running my fingers through my wet curls. I set my hand down on the side table next to the desk, one with a black clay statue of a rooster standing on one foot.  
“I ask because—” She stops at the sight of Lars as he's taking off his coat.  
“I'm sorry, where have I seen you?” she wonders aloud at him.  
“I'm Lars Ulrich from Metallica,” he states with hesitation.  
“The song that closed Denmark,” I throw out there as the statue falls off the table. I drop down with it in order to catch it before it hits the floor.  
“Be careful with that—I got that in Stockholm,” she warns me before turning around to pour the both of us mugs full of coffee. “Anyways, I ask because part of the reason why I came back to the States was I got word she was missing. By the way, how do you guys like your coffee?”  
“I like a little cream,” Lars tells her as he hangs up his coat on the hook next to mine.  
“Black, baby,” I join in as I set the statue back onto the table.  
“I ask you about yourself, Lars, because you are absolutely everywhere in Copenhagen.” She opens the fridge for some cream for his cup of coffee. “So you just look familiar from my living there for so long.”  
There's a clanking of a spoon and then she picks up the mugs and walks back into the front room with them.  
“Come on, sit!” she orders us as she sets down the black mugs on the coffee table before the sofa. Lars and I take our seats there while she sits down at the chair before her desk. She turns to us and fixes her sweater again.  
“So,” she starts, eyeing me and the pinky ring on my right hand as I'm reaching out for the mug, “how'd you find her?”  
“I live out in a little town called Oswego.”  
“Oswego… oh, I know where that is. That's—Rochester area, isn't it?”  
“Rochester, Syracuse—it's right on the shore of Ontario.”  
“Wow, she ended up way the hell up there?”  
“Yeah, and the leads we've gotten so far have said she was trying to find you, like she was following a book tour or something or other.”  
“Funny, 'cause—my last book tour was like two years ago and it was in the British Isles. Does—she know where I live?”  
“As far as we know, no,” Lars answers, picking up his mug and taking a sip.  
“She does work at the little bar next door, though,” I point out after leaning back in the comfy sofa.  
“She works there?” She's genuinely shocked by that.  
“Yeah. You didn't know that?”  
“No. I only know about the time she ran away from home and we picked her up down in New Orleans, but that was it. She ran away because she—” She stops herself and bows her head.  
“What's the matter?” I ask her.  
“This part's always hard for me to stomach because the wound's still raw.”  
I swallow down my first sip of rich black coffee before turning to him. Guess Maya running away really got to her.  
“Well maybe—Lars and I can change your mind,” I tell her in a low voice. She knits her eyebrows together and eyes me with a bit of scorn.  
“Are you trying to seduce me?”  
“…no,” I reply to her. “Why would I do that?”  
“Well, it's just you've got kind of a come hither look in your eye.”  
“He always looks like that, though,” Lars points out.  
“I really do.”  
“Oh. Well. Then it's understandable—I mean, if you've got it, flaunt it. But you have what the Scandinavians refer to as 'kavorka'. You might not see it for yourself, Joey, but you are—very sensual. You've got this almost sexual vibe to you from the big earthy brown eyes to the disheveled curls to the fact that even though you are quite svelte in build, almost scrawny in fact, you've got a lot going on in your hips and your thighs. Not to mention, you are obviously bringing attention to your chest with the unfastened buttons on your shirt. You're—a very earthy man.”  
“I am part Native American after all,” I explain.  
“Well, it's just—Europe is so liberated and free that it's almost jarring to see it here in the States.”  
“What do you mean?” Lars frowns at her, taking another sip of coffee. She fetches up a sigh.  
“Those kind of vibes are almost pushed to the side and they have—” She pauses again. “—horrible effects.”  
“Still don't understand,” I confess.  
“I always knew why she ran away to New Orleans, but I could never tell my mom, though. It would break her spirit. It's because Maya and I—we were—”  
“Yes?” Lars asks.  
“It's okay,” I encourage her.  
“—we were abused. To of great extent. I took the worst of it and… my guess is she didn't want to be around that. So, she ran off.”  
I almost drop the mug of coffee at the sound of that.


	24. (the truth and the world of neon)

“I—I don't even know what to say right now.”  
I'm rendered speechless. And my mind is blank. I really don't know what to say right now.  
“That—actually explains everything,” says Lars in a soft voice.  
“Wha—Wha—Huh?” I can't even speak.  
“That explains why she's so close to you and so unsettled around me.”  
“I—” I think I drooled on myself a little bit.  
“Joey, you're the soft one of the two of us. I admit I'm a little apprehensive at times.”  
“Mom was often distant, away from home down in New Orleans,” Candace explains. “Maya’s parents weren't around and I had shit going on at the house in Boston. So she seeks out the love and comfort in your emphasized chest and your brown eyes.”  
I feel sick.  
“Yeah, our—well, I should say, my mom's husband, he's not my dad. He'll never be my dad—my real dad's in Seattle, if you guys should pry. He did a number on me, such that it came to a point in which whenever Mom went down to New Orleans to tend to the apartment complex she owns that I would do whatever it took to please him and keep it all at bay. The other alternative was—doing the things he did to me.”  
“And Maya couldn't stomach it,” Lars follows along. I can't stomach any of this.  
“And it's funny you're from Oswego, Joey,” Candace continues even though part of me is trying to tune this whole thing out. “Because there's a guy there who—I would rather forget.”  
“Oh, God.” I feel my stomach turn even more.  
“I forget his name but—he was this young guy—I think he's about your age because this was ten years ago and he was a teenager then. I remember he had like a little kid with him and his girlfriend whoever was expecting another one.”  
That snaps me out of my trance. I think I know who she's talking about.  
“What neighborhood does he live in?” I ask her, trying to keep my stomach settled.  
“What neighborhood? Just a regular one, but hell if I know. I haven't up there in so long. Anyways, I remember he was really like—stingy and churchy, like he was always trying to get Maya and me into going to church on a regular basis. I guess he was in the same congregation as Michael at one point.”  
“Congregation?” Lars echoes.  
“Yeah. They attended the same church in Boston and then again in Syracuse. I remember going to the one in Syracuse several times and Maya and I always wanted to go to the nearby Iroquois reservation.” She returns her attention to me. “You said you're Native American?”  
“Yeah, on—” I swallow it down and feel everything simmer down a little bit, “—my mom's side. My uncle gave me a pocket knife that my grandpa had when he worked at the reservation.”  
“Do you have it?”  
“Yeah, it's—it's in my coat pocket.”  
“I was just curious. Maybe that's the other reason why she likes Joey as much as she does: he's a native soul and she can see that.”  
“Go back to this other gentleman, though,” Lars encourages her after taking another sip of coffee. “Did you learn his name?”  
“I didn't, no,” Candace confesses. “Maya and I always referred to him as the dude who's gonna have a shitload of kids some day. I remember one time he invited us into the house he used to live in and it was like a miniature shrine. And he and Michael always got on easily because they were both into the same things. It always bothered the two of us so much that we vowed to get away from our old life no matter what the cost. I couldn't risk going to Seattle to be with my real dad, or the reservation for that matter because—I just had a bad feeling about it. But I've always loved Europe and I feel an almost spiritual connection with Scandinavia. So I went there while I was still very much a teenager. I told Maya where I was going and I added that when she and I are famous writers one day, she knows where to find me.”  
You know where to find me.  
Of course.  
But then Candace frowns at me.  
“Is he okay?”  
Lars turns to me.  
“You alright, Joey? You look a little green.”  
“Think this whole thing is kinda getting to him,” Candace confesses. “It's understandable. It is hard to stomach sometimes. You know—I just have the couch and a blow up mattress in my bedroom closet, but you guys can spend the night here if you'd like.”  
“Neither of us really have any transportation either, so to speak,” Lars adds to her. “I flew here and took a cab over to the Bronx.”  
“And my car broke down in the Bronx,” I blurt out.  
“And you guys took the subway here as a result. Okay that makes sense. So—you guys wanna spend the night here? I'll order Chinese for tonight.”  
“Yeah, sure,” Lars replies. “Today's my birthday, too.”  
“Aw, happy birthday!” she declares with a warm smile. “I should order a cake, too.”  
“Oh, yeah,” I sputter out, feeling my stomach settle down at the sound of Chinese food. “I also wanna ask you something, Candace.”  
“What's that?”  
“Well, it's not really a question as much as it is a comment. But—the subways are haunted here.”  
“Oh, yeah. There's a whole—city, I'd call it, of ghosts under New York City, and they do in fact inhabit the subways. They're lost souls brought up by electric fields and it wouldn't surprise me if there's some up in Seattle in the wake of all the advancements up there. By the way, don't ask me about that, though, about what's going on up there: I don't know anything about that, other than the fact Seattle is kind of in its own world now. That was the other reason why I considered running away up there. But think of them—the ghosts—as literal ghosts in the machine. They have weird appearances and they glow like they're radioactive. They're considered evil because word on the street says they'll possess you if you're not careful.”  
“Faceless and with no hands,” Lars remarks in a soft voice. They're also green and made of neon; I'm referring back to the Lady in Green.  
“Mom thinks they're mutants, like what happened down in New Orleans. Do you guys know about that?”  
“Banana slugs?” I recall; then again, how could I forget.  
“Yeah! Yes! That’s just one example, too. My dad says everywhere there's the increase in the world of cybernetic advancements, some part of the biosphere will have to adapt to it because of evolution. And—the fact the ghosts in the subways exist, that tells me it's more than just the biosphere that's affected.”  
“It can affect humans,” I mutter aloud; I think of Brick and the feathers jutting out of his skin.  
“Now that I have that out in the open,” says Candace as she rubs her hands together, “—are you guys hungry?”


	25. (cherry pie and suede)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And then there she was  
> like double cherry pie [...]  
> And then there she was  
> in platform double suede.”  
> -”Sex and Candy”, Marcy Playground (one of my favorite songs ever)

December 27, 1988. Manhattan, New York.  
I'm waking up to total darkness over me with a rumble in my belly and a parched sensation in the back of my throat. I had fallen asleep on Candace's couch underneath a couple of her blankets and with a plush little pillow after we had eaten so much Chinese food and some cherry pie that she had ordered from the nearby bakery: she wanted to get Lars a chocolate cake like she had promised but they only had some pies left in the wake of Christmas time. God, I fell asleep feeling fuller than I had felt the other night when I was at my parents' house and when Maya and I drove upstate from the Bronx; but at least when I was at my parents' house, I slept all through the night. This time, I'm waking up at dark thirty with a hankering for something.  
I don't want to wake Candace or Lars, both of them sleeping in her bedroom in front of me, so I slide off of the couch and creep across the floor to the narrow kitchen. Surely, Lars won't mind if I have another slice of pie. I reach over to the wall on my left to click on the light and there's Candace, wrapped in a lush red wine colored suede bathrobe, hunched over at the counter, and cradling the pie in her hands. She gasps and whirls around to see me.  
“Oh, Joey,” she whispers, clutching at her chest. “I didn't know you were up. What's—What's going on?”  
“I woke up with the munchies,” I confess to her, rubbing my eyes. “I ate so much rice earlier but that's damn good pie, though.”  
“Yeah, I'll say. You want a slice?”  
“Oh, please.”  
She reaches up to the cupboard over her head for a pair of small blue and white dishes and sets them down on the counter. I rub my eyes again as I watch her cut up some more of the pie with one of the colorful knives in the drawer right in front of her. She sets a slice of some of that luscious pie on the plate to her left, and then another on the plate to her right. She puts the pie back into the fridge when I offer to get her and I both a pair of forks from the other drawer. I open it up and it's just a bunch of folded hand towels.  
“You looking for the forks?” she asks me with a gentle chuckle. I lift my head to see her opening the drawer closest to the fridge and taking out two forks with bright red handles.  
“Well, I feel dumb,” I confess, closing the drawer.  
“Don't,” she insists, handing me the one in her left. I take it, and then the plate, and take the first bite of another slice of pie.  
“Even better at one thirty in the morning,” she remarks, sloughing off a rather large piece from her slice.  
“Can I confess something to you?” I start after swallowing the bite. I need to confess that I don't know where I'm going with this.  
“Sure,” she assures me. “I mean, I confessed mine and Maya's past with abuse to you and Lars. You should feel safe to confess to me about anything.”  
I lean my hip against the edge of the counter and hold the plate up to my chest. I don't know if it's the fact it's so late but I need to throw something out there.  
“Sometimes I just wanna eat until I've got a little gut going.”  
She snorts.  
“You wanna eat until you're all bloated?”  
“Well, I am an athlete—sometimes I just want to eat everything and eat all the time at that.”  
She drops her gaze to my waist. “That explains the thick thighs and why you're so skinny.”  
“Sometimes I can't stand how skinny I am. Like just a few years ago, I was baby faced, like my cheeks were kinda chubby. And then I slimmed down a ton this past year. I almost can't help it, though. I'm just made to be skinny, I guess. My aunt says I was a brat when I was younger, all quiet and moody and sassy and just wanting to eat everything in sight. Guess some things never change as we slim down.”  
“I kinda like you all slender and slim. Like it suits you. I wouldn't imagine you any other way.”  
“I do like pasta, too.”  
She chuckles at me again. “I should've known, Mr. Roman nose and lush curly hair.” She hesitates for a second with the tines of her fork resting on her bottom lip and her eyes locked on me. “I think I've seen you guys now that I think about it. Like when you were down at the bar over here. It was you, Lars, and two women.”  
“Nancy and Dominique,” I recall, taking another big bite of pie.  
“Were they your girlfriends?”  
“Oh, no. Lars and I were just kinda treating them well that night while their boyfriends were—let's just say working. We ate so much pasta that night—God, I was so full.”  
“And you said Maya works there?”  
“I guess? She's been compiled into such a bizarre portrait as of late that I don't even know what to make of her sometimes.”  
“She was always good at that,” Candace points out, holding the back of her hand up to her mouth.  
“Good at what? Lying?” I take another large bite: I really don't care, I'm just gonna eat until my stomach stops yelling at me. And if that means I have to eat the whole thing with Candace then so be it.  
“I wouldn't say lying. Just making up things to create a diversion. Like I know the fact behind her running away was to divert attention away from me.”  
“So you think maybe some parts of—what Lars and I have found out about her could be nothing more than fabrications?”  
“Easily. Very easily.”  
“You know, when we were the bar that one night with the girls, Maya was in fact there. She cornered me outside of the bathrooms and gave me a new edition of her zine.”  
“Watershed?”  
“Mm-hm.”  
As I'm working on the outer crust of the pie, she sets down her plate on the counter and reaches up to the top of the fridge.  
“Do you need help?” I offer to her.  
“No, no—” She takes down a little booklet with that black and blue outer cover.  
“Here, take this with you back upstate,” she tells me as she hands it to me.  
“What's this?” I ask her with my mouth full.  
“A new edition of After the Watershed. Never before seen. Interestingly, I found this in the ice cream parlor bar next door. I read it all the way through to the very end and I suggest you do the same.” She leans in closer to my face. I swallow the large piece of crust I have shoveled into my mouth as she brings her chest closer to mine.  
“What're you—”  
“You know when,” she starts, licking her lips and gazing right into my face, “you were sitting on the couch and you had your shirt unbuttoned?”  
“Vaguely.”  
“I should've known you were trouble.” She licks her lips again and this time I can smell the cherry on her breath. I set the plate down on the counter next to me because it's a nice plate. I take a glimpse down at her chest, at the sight of the suede lapels opening so a bit of her chest pokes out at me. She brings her face closer to my neck like she's going to kiss the side.  
“Kavorka—” she lowers her voice to a gentle whisper. “Primal—raw—primitive—like an animal—” I relax, or try to, anyways. There's nothing behind me. I'm standing right there in the middle of the kitchen after having eaten a good sized slice of cherry pie and this girl is getting right into my face. Nothing can also distract me from the fact that she… she was… she was abused… a great deal…  
“I want you to set me free,” she whispers into my mouth as I set the zine down on the counter next to my plate.  
“Candace—”  
“Please,” she begs to me. “I need you. My wounds are still fresh. I need your love and your darkness. Please, Joey. I beg of you. I need you.”  
“Candace—I can't,” I plea to her.  
“Why not?”  
“Well, because—of that.”  
“The fact I was wounded so much?”  
“Kinda?”  
“Don't be afraid of me,” she lowers her voice to such a soft whisper that she pretty much breathes it. She puts her lips to mine. She tastes like maraschino cherries, brown sugar, and years of excruciating agony. But I can't resist her. She's running her fingers through my curls and I'm holding her close to my body. The suede is rubbing up against me in all its rich softness. I lean back against the wall and slide down to the floor. She follows me down and puts her arms around my waist once I'm here.  
“Tell me where it hurts,” I whisper in between kisses.  
“Everywhere—”  
She kisses me a few more times and then opens her robe for me. She's not wearing anything under there. Literally nothing.  
So I can see the small, slender but prominent scars on her chest and the faded bruises on her hips.  
Candace then lays down on the hard floor with her robe open. I hope Lars doesn't wake up as I'm unbuttoning my pants and peeling down my underwear.  
I'm on top of her. On top of her and bowing my head forward to kiss her scars. I'm gentle to hold onto her hips as I'm grinding on her. She closes her eyes and clutches at herself. I watch her grimace at first but then she relaxes as I'm moving more and more.  
At one point, she opens her eyes to look right at me. Those eyes that have seen horror looking right into my own.  
She reaches up to hold my wrists. I wonder what she's doing at first and then she shoves me onto my side. I lay there as she climbs off the floor, her suede bathroom still hanging loose around her body. Now she's on top of me, her legs straddling my hips. She's about to ride me like a cowgirl.  
And she does.  
The feeling is deep for me, but I know it must be even more so for her.  
I can only see those scars on her chest and the bruises on her hips. They're not surgical scars like the one on Maya's forehead, but they are as, if not more, prominent.  
She starts breathing harder with each and every gyration. She's gotta be coming soon here. Any second now.  
My heart's pounding from the feeling. I feel it within me. Surely it's gotta be there on her end.  
Any second. Any day. Any time now before the new year happens.  
She doesn't. She never does. She grinds me like an automaton. Even though I'm getting close, she seems to be falling behind. Or lost, or something.  
“I'm sorry, I can't,” she whimpers to me as tears fill her eyes.  
“No, no!” She lifts off of me and that's when I sit up to put my arms around her. It's all I can do. “It's okay—it's okay.” I've got my dick hanging out of my pants and my whole lower back is utterly freezing right now from the hard tiles, but that's the least of my problems right now.  
“No—I suck,” she weeps into my shirt. “I'm so royally screwed up that I can't even get a sexy guy off. They were right—I really am going to die alone.”  
“No, no, no—fuck them. Fuck them to the Moon and back. Here—where do you like to be touched?”  
She sniffles and brushes away a tear. I take a look at her bare naked body clothed in nothing more than the bathrobe.  
“Where do you like to be touched?” I really want to caress her nipples and maybe we can get somewhere but she shakes her head.  
“Nowhere,” she replies, her voice breaking. “I've been beat to a pulp too many times.”  
“You mean to tell me—he hurt you so much that not even kavorka, whatever you called it, can't even soften the blow?”  
“Yes,” she answers with another sniffle. She brushes away another tear before she pushes me back. I watch her scramble to her feet and close her robe.  
“Thank you for having pie with me,” she tells me, tying the belt tight around her waist. “You're a sweetie.”  
Candace sniffles again and then brushes past me back into her bedroom, and I'm left there with my groceries out there like a damn fool. But it's not either of our faults, though. As I'm putting myself back into my pants, I'm left to wonder now. I pick up the copy of After the Watershed from the counter once I'm standing up. I'll give this a read after Lars and I head on back to my car up in the Bronx. I need to know what happened in that house in Boston.


	26. (a new edition)

December 27, 1988. The Bronx, New York.  
The next morning, given the snow had stopped overnight, Candace offered to take the subway with Lars and me both back to the Bronx to fetch my car. We get there upon walking through the snow drifts to find that it's absolutely caked in thick piles of pure white snow. The sun is shining over us and the cleared streets of the northern side of the City: everything feels crisp, even more so by the sight of tiny ice crystals floating about in the air around us.  
“Are you sure that's your car?” Candace asks me as the three of us stride up to the art gallery I had parked at.  
“I broke down before an art gallery, so yeah.” I flex my fingers inside of my leather gloves to keep the blood flowing. “This is definitely where I parked.”  
“Do you have a scraper or something or other?”  
“I don't, no.”  
“By the way, do you have the—?” She waves her finger at me.  
“Nestled right under my arm.” I lift my right elbow part of the way from my coat.  
“Don't tell him, please,” she says to me in a low voice even with the noise from the street around us.  
“We can, however, do this—” Lars lunges forward to shove the snow off of the hood. I think his intent was push it off in a single blanket but he instead falls face first right into the pile. Candace and I burst out laughing at him, and then she steps forward to help him up. As he's rustling the clumps of snow from his face and head, she shakes her head at him. She says something to him, probably in Danish, and he replies something, probably in Danish, with a broken voice no less. I take a step forward and reach past them with my left hand to push the thin blanket of snow off of the windshield on the passenger side, or rather Lars' side.  
“I still can't believe you only got a one way ticket,” I confess to him as I round the front end of the car to tend to my side.  
“There's a good reason for that, though, mind you, Joey,” he points out.  
“Well, yeah, of course. It's just that I can't believe it's come to the point in which you had to fly out here to get away from your old lady.”  
“Oh, man, that blows,” Candace remarks to him, clasping her hands together.  
“Eh, what're you going to do,” he confesses to her, fixing the lapels of his coat. Once I have some of the windshield cleared off, now is the big question: will this thing start up. I unlock the door and, once I knock a great deal of the snow off the sides of my boots, I climb inside and tug the door closed in the wake of the traffic. I stick the key into the ignition.  
It whirs and makes a funny whiny noise but it rustles itself to laugh. Maybe it was just tired. This car is a piece of crap, after all.  
“You guys be careful, alright?” she tells us as she puts her arms around him.  
“Of course, of course,” he assures her before stepping away from her and opening the passenger door. He collapses into the seat next to me; I peer out the partially cleared windshield to find her blowing a kiss to me. I pat my chest and return the favor to her once Lars shuts the door behind him. He waves goodbye to her before I pull out of the space and into traffic. We head around the corner to the next block: I don't know where we're going, and the big, halfway collapsed heap of snow on the hood and the fogging up of the windshield isn't helping matters. I don't know where we're headed other than the freeway to take us out of the City.  
“So—forgive me if I'm a bit nosy, but may I ask what were you guys talking about before I dove right into the drift?”  
“Candace made me promise not to tell you about it,” I confess. “But it's about Maya, though.”  
“Surely you can tell me. After what happened yesterday with her confession to us, surely you can tell me about it, Joey.”  
“I can't, though. She made me promise.”  
“But it's got to be important, though.”  
I purse my lips together as I notice that the inside of the windshield is fogging up even more.  
“God, it's cold,” I remark, trying to act all oblivious to what he's asking me.  
“Come on, tell me!” he insists, rubbing his hands together.  
“Alright, fine.” I fetch a sigh as we pull up to a stoplight. Using his gloves, he reaches forward to wipe off the condensation on my side of the windshield. “Apparently—Maya is a liar.”  
“She's a liar?” he echoes, sitting back. “How so?”  
“She's good at creating diversions. You know how Candace told us she took the worst of it?”  
“How could I forget.”  
“Yeah, well, I guess Maya running away to New Orleans was to divert the attention away from Candace and onto her.”  
He frowns at that. “How's that a bad thing, though? She was trying to help her sister.”  
“Yeah, but imagine what else she could've been lying about, though, Lars. She could've been lying ot us about everything.” The light turns green and we roll forward. “Inside of my jacket, there's a never before seen edition of Watershed that Candace gave me last night from the top of her fridge.”  
“You want me to reach down your jacket to fetch it for you,” he says in a flat tone of voice.  
“You are curious, though,” I point out, changing over to the right lane to get us closer to the freeway.  
“Joey Belladonna, you cheeky bastard.”  
“Well, what else am I supposed to do? Carry it plain sight while there's snow and ice everywhere and get it ruined? I don't think so.”  
“Alright, fine.”  
I've got both of my leather clad hands on the wheel as Lars reaches over my right arm so as to open my coat. I hold still as we're headed down this straight stretch of pavement which I know makes it easier for him to take the zine out from underneath my coat. He then pushes my coat closed without refastening the buttons. Then again, we are getting heat into the engine now, but not enough for me to turn on the heater as of yet.  
I've got my full attention on the street in front of us and the clumps of snow falling off the hood as he opens to the first page.  
“'I need to let whoever is reading this know,'” he reads aloud, “'that my history with foster families and living on the street has made me rather apprehensive of confronting the full truth about anything. I am always wanting to run and hide and seek out the comfort of certain things, things that had been taken from me as I was taken from a place I had just began to call home.'”  
“Well, that explains the need to create a distraction,” I conclude.  
“Right? 'I cannot seem to help it. I need to lie and create diversions like how human beings need to breathe.' Yeah, just imagine what she's lied to us about…” His voice trails off as I spot the onramp to the freeway taking us back upstate.  
“My point exactly. But keep going, though.”  
“'My apologies ahead of time to Lars Ulrich, whom of which I met in England through his wife of two years. I am responsible—'” He stops.  
“What's the matter?” I ask him; I take a glimpse over at him and the look of sheer disgust on his face. “What?”  
“'I am responsible for his wife's turning to alcohol. I coaxed her into it.'” The tone of his voice turns more curt as he reads along even more. “'When I met her, she seemed normal, but I knew she had that fatal flaw. I took advantage of it: I forced her to drink so much that the other alternative was to shove her down the stairs. I don't know what summoned me into it. It was just something I needed to do. I need to say that—I cannot in any way be trusted. I lie and cheat and steal things, and yet I feel the need to redeem myself.' I—” He lifts his head as we're merging onto the freeway.  
“I—how could she,” he mutters in a soft voice. “How could she do that?”  
“And make you test the limit of your sanity to boot,” I add, turning the heater dial. And yet he continues reading aloud.  
“It says here she's divided down the middle, between doing horrible things to people and atoning herself. And then there's something about wanting to kill people only to apologize to their corpse… saying how they're both primal needs, 'to walk the line of sheer evil and sheer good' as she puts it. How—this is just—I—”  
“Can't even think straight,” I finish for him.  
“Not at all.” He closes the zine and sets it down on the dashboard before him. We're both silent for most of the way out to Monticello and into the mountains: once the high piles of snow rise up to the level of my car's windows, he speaks up again.  
“It could just be from everything that she's been through.”  
“Could be,” I reply with a shrug. “It's an after effect of all of that.”  
“That would actually explain why she's so apprehensive of me.”  
“She's afraid of being found out,” I tell him; I recall that one line about feeling afraid to digging too deep and drowning as a result of that.  
“Find out the truth about her,” he grumbles, resting the side of his head against the backs of his knuckles. “While seeking out the comfort of something she didn't get as a child.” He turns his head to me; I glance over at him and the grave look on his face.  
“The comfort of—an Iroquois man,” I follow it up.  
“So—not to change the subject or anything, but,” the tone of his voice is still quite terse, “where am I going to sleep at your place?”  
“When we get back to Oz?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, there's my bed—”  
“And the risk of getting kicked in the head again,” he grumbles, “like I need anymore of that.”  
“There's also the couch. The recliner's not bad, but I wouldn't recommend it.”  
“At any given rate, I'd rather sleep on the floor.” He shakes his head; I can't take any of that personally, though.  
“I'm so sorry, Joey, it's just—it's just—” He covers his face with one hand.  
“That was so shitty on her part,” I declare.  
“Disgraceful,” he corrects me, his voice breaking. “Maya ruined my marriage. She ruined—” He stops and I know he's crying. I fetch up a sigh.  
“There's a rest stop coming up here in a few miles so—you can get out and throw some snowballs if you'd like.” I don't know what else to do.  
“Thank you,” he whispers, sniffling. Indeed, I catch the sight of the nice rest stop off his side of the road, one with some nice bathrooms and a plain stretch of ground leading to the trees. Once I pull up to the first parking space before the bathrooms, he barrels out of his seat and dives head first into the nearest snow drift. Even though I have to pee, I also have to watch him tear up some of this big pile of snow. He's chucking clumps of ice over the pile and into the flat part. He kicks up some of the snow, punches it, slams his fists into it, slams his knees into it, and I know at some point he's going to get too cold for comfort.  
I leave the car running as I climb out to get him. His face is bright pink from the combination of the cold and anger; his eyes are brimming with tears.  
“Lars—” I tell him as he throws even more snow over the pile, just whole clumps of snow, not even balls. He shouts something in Danish.  
“Lars, come on—you're gonna get hypothermia—”  
“I don't want to live!” he shrieks, his broken voice echoing over the grass and the sidewalk. He throws even more snow. “I! Don't! Want to! Focking! Live! I—” And then he breaks down into sobs. I reach down to catch him before he falls ass over teakettle into the drift. He bawls so loudly as I hold him to my chest. I hold the back of his head and he wraps his arms around my lower back.  
“It's okay,” I assure him in a gentle voice. “It's okay—I'm here. I've got you, I've got you.” It's just like the night I found Maya. He lets out a loud sob and that's when I guide him back to the car. Lucky for me, we're the only ones here.  
He sniffles loudly and pushes a piece of his hair back behind his ear. I let him climb in first and then I round the front of the hood to my side. I don't know what else to do now than take him home and sift through Maya's lies. He buries his face in his gloves as I get into my seat.  
“One thing's for certain,” I confess to him before I close the door behind me, “one thing is for certain, Lars.”  
“What's that?” he weeps out, sniffling again.  
“I have an album to record.”


	27. (another fright night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This Halloween  
> so unlike any other.  
> Her final words:  
> ‘Don't be afraid  
> of the green light.’“  
> -”Creepy Green Light”, Type O Negative  
> (by the way, I’ve noticed in this more emotionally intense chapters that Joey, in a way, really strikes me as like Harrison Ford: the quintessential very brave but scared shitless guy)

December 27 or 28, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
Poor Lars.  
I think he's having a rough night.  
I'm cozy and snuggly in my bed at the moment, after a warm shower and getting some food in my belly, and yet I can hear him weeping some more out there in the living room.  
I almost want to bring him in here with me and we can sleep head to toe again.  
He's out there by himself…  
About an hour before we approached the outskirts of 'Swaygo, he removed his wedding band and threw it out the window.  
All I could do was sigh through my nose and keep driving. There's nothing I can do right now except be his crying towel.  
He's as big of an eater as I am, but when we got back to my apartment and I offered him a bowl of soup, he refused it and insisted on being alone there on the couch.  
That was four hours ago.  
It's like Maya all over again, except I'm with a guy who got screwed over by her.  
When I got out of the shower, I was almost inclined to head on down the hall to take him over to Black Orchid, but I decided not to. Instead I lit some incense to keep Mrs. Snow pleased, and dried off, and turned in for the night.  
I try to roll over so as to not hear him, but I can still hear his light whimpers on the other side of the wall.  
I close my eyes and sigh through my nose. I've got the blankets pulled up to my ears so it feels like I'm swaddled.  
Even with the blankets over my ears, I can catch his gasps and his gentle sobs.  
I wish there's something I can do.  
But I have to let him weep out into the darkness, with Vera and Mr. Lang at his assistance.  
Right as I'm about to fall asleep, I hear him say something.  
Then I hear him say my name.  
I don't speak freaky weeky Danish, Lars. You know that.  
I try to ignore it.  
And then he says my name again.  
I try to ignore it.  
“Joey, who's this green lady?” he calls from the next room.  
I open my eyes to be faced with pitch darkness. Not the Lady in Green. She came to me that one night when I was lonely.  
I think back to what Candace told us about the ghosts in the subway. They glow and are deformed, like literal ghosts from the machine.  
Maybe that's what the Lady in Green is: she's a literal ghost from the machine. But the only electrical field near here is the power plant, and it's pretty far from here. I would think the generator under the House of Grey but—  
“GET OFF ME, YOU SUCCUBUS!”  
I roll over onto my back and stare straight up at the dark ceiling.  
Don't make me get up. Please don't make me get up. I'm begging you.  
“Get OFF of me!”  
Alright, fine.  
I push back the covers and climb out of bed, and step out to the hallway, where I'm met with an eerie bright green glow shining out from the living room. I hurry across the hall to fetch my incense. I don't need much, so I hurry back to my room for my pocket knife…  
…and I stub my pinky toe on my nightstand. I almost lose my balance but Lars' whimpering and crying forces me to keep it together. I swipe my knife off the nightstand and hobble back to the bathroom, and lay a stick of incense on the counter. I open the knife to cut the stick in half and I take the part with the bare stick and insert it into the ashtray. I light the stick and take it into the living room, where the Lady in Green is doing… something to Lars. Her dress is as radiant and green as ever. Her hair streams back from her head; but her face has disappeared. She's faceless, much like the boy with no hands in the subway.  
“Get away from him,” I command her as I set the incense down on the table next to the phone. It's all I can do for him: I mean, if it wards off Mrs. Snow, it has to ward off the Lady in Green. I don't know what else to do right then. I double back to my bedroom as the whole front of the apartment begins to smell of incense. I leave the door ajar by about an inch.  
As I climb back into bed with my foot aching, the green glow begins to wane away.  
But before I can make myself comfortable again, I have a chill run up my back and all down my arms.  
“Remember the last, Joseph,” the Lady in Green whispers through my bedroom door before the glow fades out into darkness. Lars pants and whimpers to himself out there in the living room.  
“Again—the last what?” I demand as I lay back down in bed. I roll over onto my side and pull my left leg up towards my chest to bring my foot in closer to me when Lars clears his throat.  
“Joey?” he calls out in a hoarse voice. I return to my back.  
“Yeah?” I reply back, feeling a little annoyed.  
“Thank you.”  
“Just trying my best, man. Just trying my best. Try and get some sleep, alright?”  
“Sure. Hey, what about the Man in Black?”  
“What about him?”  
“What should I do if I see him?”  
“I dunno. Hide under the covers? That's what I do.”  
“Okay. What about this hound?”  
I open my eyes again.  
“Hound? Like—a dog?”  
“Yeah. There's a dog looming in the window with big orange eyes. I know it's a dog because it's shaped like one.”  
That's new.  
“Well, the incense is burning so I think you should be fine out there.”  
But that makes me wonder now. All these new ghosts popping up out of nowhere it seems. Maybe there's yet another layer to all of this advancement in technology.  
I'm too tired to ruminate on it just yet.


	28. (the streets of bostonia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It could’ve been,  
> should’ve been worse than you would ever know.  
> Well, the windshield was broken,  
> but I love the fresh air ya know.”  
> -”Dashboard”, Modest Mouse (forever another fave of mine)

December 31, 1988. Oswego, New York.  
Lars has been staying with me and sleeping on my couch for the past three days, and every day he vowed to me to take me over to Music America in order to help me out with the record I want to make, but so far nothing has come from it. At one point, I told him it was supposed to snow the night before New Year's and I wanted us to skedaddle to Rochester before it got bad, and sure enough, it did right as we were getting dressed to leave. That was also the same afternoon Billy came over to check on us and joked about how we're the odd couple of Oswego, even though Lars is just here because he's got nowhere to go at the moment. Apparently his wife owns the house in Portland, he doesn't have the keys to his house in San Francisco, and there's a pretty nasty rainstorm down in New Orleans right now.  
We are kind of like the odd couple now that I think about it. I'm the bronze skinned bachelor with the small pad and a lot in between the toned legs and I admit it: I'm a total slob. Lars is the white skinned once married man with three houses and is resident mad genius. I can only imagine what it must be like with James or Kirk for that matter.  
I don't know if it's cabin fever talking, but when I woke up this morning, I felt like kicking ass to usher in the new year.  
I sat on the edge of my bed and raised my arms over my head to stretch.  
Now I'm striding into the living room in nothing more than my pajama bottoms to find Lars laying on the couch wrapped up in the blanket I lent him and staring up at the ceiling. It's at the point in which now he's growing a full Christmas sweater beard.  
I loom before the arm of the couch and the soles of his feet with my hands on my hips.  
“Superman?” he asks me.  
“Come on, get dressed. We're going to Boston.”  
“Why Boston?”  
“Because that's where the Morlentes live. If you and I can't get our asses over to a studio like what you promised and teased for the past three days, we need to get over to Boston and do some snooping.”  
He sighs an exasperated sigh.  
“I don't feel like it, though.”  
“Come on, man.” I drop my hands down by my sides. “Surely, we've got to uncover all the diversions and find the truth about Maya at some point. We've got all the clues with us—we've just gotta put it all together like the puzzle it is.”  
“I admire your motivation, Joey, but I just can't bring myself to it at the moment. I can't muster the same passion I had for finding—for finding her—” He closes his eyes and shuffles his head against the pillow. He opens his eyes again and lifts his head to look at me. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of me.  
“God, what a body.”  
“Don't—Don't—” I wince at that and raise a hand to my face.  
“No, I mean it. I envy you, Joey. Slim, so very attractive, living by yourself, and not getting all tangled up in the opposite sex.”  
He fetches up another sigh and then he shakes his head.  
“I've got nothing to lose,” he mutters under his breath.  
“Your band?” I recall for him.  
“I got fired.”  
“F—what?!” I'm stunned by that.  
“Yeah.” He sits upright as I gape at him and the exhausted look on his face.  
“W-When?!” I can hardly speak.  
“Last year. Right after we got home from the Puppets tour. James, Kirk, and Cliff had been planning on it for months in advance. Scott knew about it. Did he tell you?”  
“No!”  
“Yeah, well—” He sighs again. “I got fired. Unceremoniously, much like how you were.”  
I shake my head at that. It's like I got punched in the stomach just now.  
“That should explain why I've had nothing but time,” he continues. “Nothing but time to watch my marriage crumble and uncover the one true catalyst.”  
“But the place down in New Orleans, though—”  
He shakes his head and closes his eyes once again.  
“That was something my dad co-signed me onto. I sold my place in San Francisco and used the money there to buy that little place. That's why it's in such a dilapidated building because rent down there is cheap. I knew my marriage was going to end and I would be kicked out of Portland, so I decided on a back up plan in the Big Easy, the place that's easy to find things. I didn't want to tell Marcia and Sonia about it because they love me, they don't want me to leave the Northwest. I am going to have to break it to them at some point, though.”  
I put my hand on my hip and run my other hand through my black curls.  
“God—I just—why didn't you tell me sooner?”  
“I was going to. In Black Orchid. The day you and I crossed paths there. Remember when I told you I couldn't tell you why I was there? That was why. I couldn't talk about it yet because it was hard for me to stomach it at the time. So it took me a couple of more months and finding the truth about Maya and my marriage to come to terms with it. All that crying the other day really helped me, too.”  
He leans forward over the blanket: I can see he had crossed his legs underneath there.  
“Let me tell you, Joey—you think you know someone, and then you hear their eulogy. You just heard the eulogy of Lars Ulrich.”  
“So you have nothing to lose now,” I conclude, fetching up a sigh myself.  
“Correct a mundo. And what better timing, it being New Year's Eve and so soon after my birthday on top of that. I can begin the last year of the decade on a clean page.”  
“Okay, well—let me put a shirt on and we'll take the arrowhead over to Boston.”

**********************************

We arrive in that same neighborhood, the same one I visited with Angeline back on Matt's birthday, although I think we're in a different place from the house because I don't recognize any of these dark stone buildings with their arches and brass chimneys and gutters. The smooth cold cobblestones underneath our feet are still glistening with ice from the melting of snow. Given it's broad daylight, I told Lars to put on something over his eyes to protect from the glare.  
We're both in our heavy dark coats, our boots, and our scarves: I have on my mirrored sunglasses and he has on these little round ones with black and white speckled frames Barney had lent him. A couple of airline pilots, the both of us. He wrinkles his nose as he takes a glimpse around the block.  
“What smells like potatoes?” he wonders aloud.  
“That's what I told Angeline when we first came here last month. Like this whole entire neighborhood smells of potatoes. Now—follow me. At least, I think this is the right way.” I lead him down the sidewalk, which is peppered with dents and cracks, over to the corner; in front of us is a bakery with a darkened front window before a big display of all manner of baked goods. Neither of us have eaten yet. I hope we can make this quick here because I'll be starving soon enough. To the left of us stands a leather shop and a bank. To the right of us is a haberdasher and a tailor. All the buildings are made of three kinds of brick, all of it clean and nicely scrubbed from all the steam power here. Over our heads, the sky is pure white with the steam itself from the factories. I catch the bright glimmer of a drone off in the distance.  
I see you, bastard. I don't trust you.  
“Which way do we go?” he wonders aloud.  
“God, I don't know—this way?”  
We cross the cobblestones towards the bakery and the sight of all those baked goods out front. I feel my stomach churning at the sight of it. No, not yet, Joey.  
We stride along the sidewalk past another bank and some little boutiques. The potato smell gives way to the sweet smell of molasses. There's a grinding of gears and a gushing sound right in front of us. Lars huddles closer to me.  
“I don't like this,” he admits to me.  
“It's alright—we'll find our way through here.”  
At least I hope we do.  
The sidewalk curves around a brick wall. Looming off in the distance through the white glare is a white sign with a brick red triangle right in the middle. We're heading right into a roundabout. Lucky for us, we're on foot. But still. Right after that roundabout is another roundabout. And another. And another with a big black round clock much like the one in Grand Central, with a pearly white face and thick black hands.  
“What is this, some kind of gag?” Lars and I say at the same time as we reach the sixth roundabout and the sign is still big and looming in our view. We stop and take a glimpse at one another, and then we burst out laughing.  
“The fact you and I thought of that at the same time!” I declare to him.  
“I know, right?”  
We keep laughing and then I catch a whiff of potatoes again to our right. I gesture down the sidewalk and we head on along another brick wall, a lower one this time and one that's holding back some kind of junkyard. At one point, I take a peek over the wall to find a myriad of those air conditioners Matt had told me about before. Amongst all of those are scraps of old metal, springs, screws, and all manner of things that the cybernetics coming our way are about to render obsolete. They're about to render us all obsolete. All of it.  
Wait, why am I thinking like this?  
I take a glimpse upward to find a drone lingering over our heads. That smooth metallic body shining so bright in the glare made by the morning sun.  
Without a sound.  
“You think that thing might drop a nuke on us?” Lars quips, out of breath from all the walking we've done. And I know he's looking at the drone, too.  
“God, I hope not.”  
“If it does—Joey—I hope it's a dud.”  
“Well, if it's a dud, what would we do with something like that?”  
“I don't know!”  
“What do you mean, you don't know?”  
“I really don't know! I'm not a nuclear scientist!”  
“Shit—let's just cross the street. I mean, we can't keep walking the streets of Bostonia with it being this risky after all.”  
“Hope there's no trucks with radioactive waste headed our way…”  
“Or radioactive molasses for that matter! That's even worse!”  
The soles of our boots clomp over the cobblestones to the other sidewalk. We round another corner and the fear of getting vaporized subsides. I turn my head to find the drone floating in the opposite direction.  
I shake my head and take off my sunglasses for a second to rub my eyes.  
“Wow, nice place,” Lars remarks. I keep my eyes shut as I put my shades back on. I lift my head to see the house, the house of Morlente.  
“This is it,” I declare, holding my arms out as if beholding a masterpiece.  
“This is it?”  
“The house that Maya led Angeline and me back to.”  
I guide him to the front of the yard. Since neither of us are a reporter from the New York Times, I gesture for Lars to duck down with me. Since it's breakfast time, I'm sure Mike and Maya are awake at the moment. Heaven help us if either of them look out either of those front windows at us. I lead him to the same side of the house I was that one night, except instead of ducking around the corner, we're down beneath the window.  
“Okay, so what happened here when you and Angeline were here?” he starts in a hushed whisper.  
“Maya let us inside and Michael gave us dinner. I went in around back and that's where he caught me but he was cordial, though. Which—I still find really weird.”  
“Huh.” From behind his shades, I see him raise an eyebrow. “Okay, so what do we do?”  
“I say we take a peek. Let's see how this household really is. If Maya really did lie to us that bad and that much, surely she must be lying about her home life, especially after what happened to Candace.”  
Since we did a lot of walking, my heart is pounding inside of my chest. I let out a low whistle to calm it down.  
And then I lift my head to the window sill for a peek inside.


	29. ("it's a madhouse")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Trapped in this nightmare,  
> I wish I'd wake,  
> as my whole life begins to shake.  
> Four walls surround me,  
> an empty gaze,  
> can't find my way out of this maze!"  
> -"Madhouse", Anthrax (but of course!)

December 31, 1988. Boston, Massachusetts.  
“Do you see anything?” Lars whispers to me from down beneath me, right from the bushes.  
“Aside my from my own reflection?” I couldn't help that. “Um—just a sliver of the front room. There's a big comfy looking chair—that's also falling apart at the seams—a big heavy lamp. Jesus.” I shift my hands along the edge of the sill. Even though there's nobody in there, I have to adjust myself to keep myself comfortable. I also picked the wrong day to be wearing a shirt that likes to ride up my body.  
“What else is in there?” he coaxes me.  
“Looks like a—a black metal—thing.” I can’t tell what it is. “Like a tube. Sticking out of the carpet—over in the far corner—oh, wait!”  
“What?”  
I lower my head a little bit so Mike doesn't see me. He's as slicked back as ever, and dressed in a nice luxurious house coat of crushed velvet. He strides over to the recliner and the tube in the far corner. He has his back turned towards the window and I have sunglasses on so I can't entirely see what he's doing over there.  
“What is it?” Lars asks me again, still in a hushed voice.  
“Old man Morlente just entered the room.”  
“What is he doing?”  
“He's got his back turned to me, I can't see.”  
Mike shakes his head about like a dog shaking water off of its body. He hunches down as if saying a prayer. Then he reaches up to his face.  
“Can you tell what he's doing now?”  
I lick my lips and cock my head to the side even though that won't help me. I really want to fix my shirt but it’s either that or hold onto the sill; I do however see his fingers hold onto the sides of his face.  
“Joey?” Lars persists. “Can you tell what he's doing now?”  
“Looks like—he's—” I pause for a second. “I—I don't know.”  
“Well, what? What is he doing?” he repeats.  
“…I don't know.”  
“What do you mean you don't know? Explain his actions to me.”  
“Lars, it looks like he's—peeling the skin—off of his face.”  
“…what.” I bow my head away to keep myself from puking at the sight. Lars, meanwhile, looks utterly horrified with his mouth agape and his eyebrows raised up.  
“He just reached up and,” I gesture around my face, “—took the skin off from his face as if it was a mask.”  
He gapes at me for a second before pushing me back behind him.  
“Let me see—let me see—”  
“No!”  
But he lifts himself up to the window sill for a peek inside. I recline back on my elbows there on the grass as he hangs up there by his fingertips. He's silent as he watches what's going on in there.  
“Can you see what he's doing?” I relay it to him.  
“What the hell,” he breathes out.  
“What's he doing?”  
“He's got his head turned to the side and—the whole interior of his face is—human—obviously human flesh—but there's—like—wiring—embedded in the tissue of the muscle.”  
The very suggestion of that makes my stomach turn.  
“Wiring? Like—the white wires we saw in that one neighborhood in Seattle and the ones that just about impaled us down in the Bronx?”  
“The same. There are like—little glimmers of blue neon embedded in his flesh, too. He's like—half human, half—robot. It's like he's a cyborg.”  
“Well, remember what Candace said about the rise in new tech: where it grows—”  
“—the biosphere has to adapt with it, right! But—” He returns to the window sill. “—it looks like it's embedded in his flesh, though. Like, it was deliberately put there.”  
“Like… surgery?” I grimace at the very thought. It makes my skin itch.  
“Maybe. From the look of it, it's pretty intricate. Like even from here, I can tell it’s pretty delicate stuff that’s inside of his face. Oh, wait, there's Maya!”  
He ducks down but keeps the tips of his fingers on the edge of the sill. He then lifts his head again for another peek within the house. I finally remember to reach down to tug on the bottom of my shirt because it's a little too chilly to show some skin.  
“What's she doing?” I ask him in a soft whisper.  
“She's—fiddling with—something. Something that resembles to a pen. She's saying something, but I can't hear her, though, probably because the window's closed. Times like this I wish I read lips. Now Michael's saying something. She's replying something—she looks—hurt.”  
“Hurt? Like—physically?”  
“No. Emotionally. I can see it on her face. She's staring off into space—pressing her fingers to her lips—now she's bowing her head. Michael's saying something. Looks like she's crying. I wonder what happened.”  
“Yeah, me, too.”  
“Lifting her head—she just mouthed your name.”  
“My name?”  
“'Joey.'”  
I sit upright and cross my legs right there on the grass.  
“What's she doing now?”  
“Running out of there. Shit, man—makes me wonder what's going on in there. Michael looks pissed, too, like he's about to go postal. Might just be the circuitry in his face but—” He ducks down again, quicker this time.  
“Well, we've gotta do something,” I tell him as he squats down next to me: his hair streams down from behind his left shoulder and onto his knee.  
“Why don't we just make a run for it?”  
“We're not gonna make a run for it,” I scoff at the suggestion, “especially when we've come this far for Maya, for crying out loud.”  
He licks his lips again and nods behind me.  
“Let's go around the corner here,” he suggests.  
“What, behind me?”  
“Yeah.”  
I scramble onto my feet and, keeping my head bowed low, I lead him to the corner where I hid before when I was here with Angeline. I reach there first and I wait for a few seconds before Lars ducks down next to me. The two of us there behind the corner, out of sight, out of mind.  
“I say that because,” he starts, but he's cut off by the sound of the front door opening. I purse my lips together while he clasps his hands to his mouth. We stand there in total silence as we're met with even more silence around the corner, more silence within mere inches of me. I don't move. I don't breathe. I can't hear a thing.  
The two of us are standing there with our backs pressed to the wall in total silence.  
Then I hear the soles of shoes scraping against the front step around the corner there.  
The door then closes.  
I let out a low whistle. Lars takes his hands off of his mouth.  
“That was close,” I whisper to him. “Good call.”  
“Anyways, I said that because—” He nibbles on his bottom lip; I turn to see his eyes from behind the darkened lenses of his sunglasses staring up at my head.  
“It was my hair, wasn't it,” I conclude it. “Bet you money it was.”  
“It was. Anyways—let's check out some more of this property—see if we can find out more about them without getting into the house.”  
Lars steps to the left, once more down this alleyway towards the backyard, where I was before. But he stops at the corner to take a look back at me.  
“When you were here before, how'd you get in?”  
“I went over to the back door and went in there, and that's where old man Morlente caught me. I justified it by saying I'm a friend of Maya's and that's when he took me in.”  
“Okay. Did he at least have his face on?”  
“Definitely, definitely. Yeah.”  
“Okay—hey, what's this?”  
He points across the yard to a small black wooden shed with a sloped roof at the far end: there's a heavy black wire going down from the top of the turret at the back of the house down to the shed. Keeping our heads down, he leads me across the yard towards the shed. Hovering over the edge of the yard is the sight of that white and red sign off in the distance: that must be creepy at night, especially living this close to it. Right before reaching the door, I linger back. He turns to look at me.  
“What's wrong?”  
“Hang on, for all we know, there could be nuclear waste in there,” I warn him.  
“Joey, if there was nuclear waste in there, neither of us would have any hair and both of us would lose half of our body weight in one fell swoop. Yes, that includes you, Mr. Washboard flat belly. I'm sure it's nothing too nefarious.”  
He turns around to the front door of the shed and I fetch up another sigh as he opens the door.  
Inside of the shed is a big shiny smooth wall covered with all manner of buttons and dials and gauges. Right in front of us is a smooth panel held at an angle: there's a notch up top so I guess it can be easily taken off. It's making a quiet hum through the floor, like the one from a refrigerator. To the right side is a series of gears lined up along the corner. They're moving very slowly.  
“It's a generator,” he remarks in a low voice: little blue lights to the left of us go off and on in their creating power.  
“Reminds me of the one the Greys have underneath their house. In a way, that is.”  
He reaches forward for the panel and strips it off without any effort. I peer over his shoulder to the black screen there. All manner of numbers and letters jumbled up in perfect straight lines cover the screen: they're all moving at too quick of a pace for me to fully read them, too slow of a pace to even know what it is that I'm looking at at first glance.  
“It's all—code?” I wonder aloud. “I don't speak code.”  
“Times like this I wish I was a hacker…” His voice trails off.  
“Why would you wish for that?” I ask him.  
“Could be useful, especially with everything that's about to rise up on the West Coast.”  
“Not just there—upstate, too.”  
“Upstate, too?” He glances over me with his eyebrows raised.  
“Yeah. The other day before I left for the City, I noticed a big pile of those white wires in the parking lot at my apartment complex. And then there were those neon lights across Lake Ontario that one time.”  
“Oh, right! When we were coming back to Oswego from Buffalo that night.”  
“Exactly! There were those lights across the waters from Rochester.”  
“There was a big pile of those wires there in your apartment complex?”  
“Yeah. Scared the hell out of me, too, especially after what happened to us.”  
“Anyways, I say we put this back—” He returns the panel to its spot there on the generator. Once he's got it secure there, the two of us step back; I shut the door, careful not to make any noise all the while. I wheel around to find Maya standing right behind us. Lars stumbles back a bit and almost falls onto his ass.  
“Jesus, Maya,” I blurt out, clasping a hand to my chest. “Don't sneak up on us like that.”  
“What are you doing?” she asks me in that gentle voice, completely oblivious to Lars right next to me. She squints at me from the white glare of the steam in the sky: the scar on her forehead is bright pearly white from the sunlight.  
“Just—uh—seeing if you were home.”  
“Why were you looking in there?”  
“We were just wondering what it was,” Lars says at a quick clip.  
“Uh, yeah, we were just curious about it—we went around back because we wanted to check to see if anyone was home at all.”  
“I'm home—and so is Papa. I can get him if you guys would like.”  
“Oh, no, no, we wanted to see you and how you were doing,” I insist to her.  
“No, no—let me get him.”  
She turns around and ambles across the grass without swinging her arms towards the back door. Once she's back inside of the house, Lars and I take a glimpse at one another.  
“Should we make a run for it now?” he quips at me.  
“Yeah, I think we should.” We run towards the side of the house and down that alleyway. I lead the way back to the front gate; I reach the street first. Even though I'm in big heavy boots, I can still run fast. I feel my shirt riding up again, but I don’t have time for that. I take a glimpse over my shoulder at Lars right behind me. I don't know where I'm going: I only know to get away from that house. That madhouse.


	30. (mood for trouble)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I did not wanna fight,  
> I did not wanna kill.  
> I wanted to be real.  
> I wanted to believe  
> that I was not the only one alive.”  
> -”Mood for Trouble”, Soundgarden

I'm only focused on the cobblestones right before us. The glare from the morning sun over our heads is only providing me with the fact that I have a light guiding me away from there. It's not as bad as it has been, but it is in fact still there. The fact it's waning tells me there's something coming into Boston for the first moments of the New Year. The aroma of potatoes is still hanging over us.  
But that's not the thing that's of my concern at the moment.  
I'm about ready to reach over and bring Lars closer to me. He keeps lagging behind me.  
But we round a corner, around yet another roundabout. The stones all look exactly the same. It's all identical.  
“Joey! Stop! Stop!” Lars bellows out at one point.  
I skid to a halt right there on a patch of half collapsed brick sidewalk, on the corner of another intersection and right next to a heavy black iron streetlamp. Panting, a part of me wants to take off my shades and rub my eyes. But the glare is pretty bad right here in particular, so I'm not gonna risk it, not until we can find some snow or a place for us to hide out and figure out where to go from here. Lars groans as he clutches his side.  
“You okay?” I ask him, feeling my voice break. I run my fingers through my black curls.  
“Stitch—I have a stitch in my side—oh, ouch, God dammit—”  
“Amazed you can still run like hell after such a horrific injury to your knee,” I point out to him, keeping my hand upon my head.  
“It stopped hurting about a day before I went to New York,” he replies. “I just didn't want to take my cane with me, either.”  
“I can see that being a royal pain in the ass, too.”  
“Oh, definitely. You know, I actually nearly poked myself in the eye with that stupid thing about a week ago.”  
“Really?” I drop my hand down to my side and put my other hand upon my hip.  
“Yeah. Don't ask me how I did it, though, because I'm still trying to figure out how the hell I did it.”  
He fetches up a sigh and brushes some of his hair back from his shoulder.  
“So what do we do now?” he asks me, clearing his throat.  
“I have no idea,” I confess to him, sighing myself and trying to calm down my heart. “I can't get that image out of my head, either.”  
“Which one, the generator or Michael taking his face off or Maya acting weird?”  
“All of it, actually. Especially old man Morlente taking off his face. It was exactly like he had taken off a mask from his face.”  
“I really hope Maya doesn't come after us,” he admits in a grim tone.  
“I don't think she will. At least I hope she won't. I mean, why would she, anyways?”  
“If she was behaving like that, that can't be a good sign, especially after everything Candace has told us…” His voice trails off. And it takes me a second to realize he's peering up at the wall behind me. “Wait, wait, what's this?”  
“What's what?” I turn around to behold the sight of the little shop with wooden walls painted solid black and a dark window. Right in the middle of the window, inscribed in big blocks of black and golden letters, it reads: “RECORDS AND TAPES.” I gasp at the sight of it, and so does he.  
“We found a record store!” I exclaim, my voice echoing over the sidewalk.  
“We found a record store!” he repeats after me.  
“We found a record store!” I clutch onto his shoulders.  
“We—found—a—focking record store!” his voice breaks a great deal.  
“Come on, let's get our asses in here—!” I coax him into the shop. There's no glare in here so we take off our shades.  
Turns out, this is far more than just a music store: there's a sign hanging from the ceiling pointing towards the back and it reads that there's all manner of gadgets and and gear and stuff there, much to Lars' sense of adventure. While he goes back there, I'm tending to the rows of vinyl records near the front desk. So many of these are without a doubt a wet dream of mine: Abbey Road on bright yellow vinyl, Lovin' Spoonful and Screamin' Jay Hawkins both on lush blood red vinyl, Deep Purple on the a propos deep violet vinyl. A whole entire section dedicated to Frank Zappa! Another whole entire section dedicated to the Who! Everything from “Radar Love” and early Creedence to old Delta blues to Sinatra and Perry Cuomo to The Cure and the Sex Pistols to Linda Ronstadt and Cyndi Lauper to…  
State of Euphoria.  
That bright yellow sleeve with the scarlet target right on the front with those fading excited faces along the side. I hold it by the sides right there in the midst of the other heavy metal records and stroke the front of it with the pad of my thumb. I can't help but feel wistful for those days when I was baby faced and didn't have a single care in the world just so long as I got to sing with my band. It wasn't even that long ago I was in a state of euphoria myself.  
Maybe it was the reviews. And maybe I wasn't the right fit for them. But it still hurts now that I give it some thought…  
“Hey, Joey, check this out!”  
I lift my gaze towards Lars and what looks like a black label maker in hand with a disk near the back and a trigger near his index finger.  
“What's that?” I ask him.  
“A radar detector. Apparently, the back of this store here is a tech store. The woman back there told me Boston is trying to resist the incoming rise in high tech, but they couldn't. So they're preparing the city the best they can with stores like that. Kept in cognito, too.”  
“Probably because they don't want whoever's leading the rise to suspect what's going on here,” I follow along. He nods his head at me and then knits his eyebrows together.  
“What you got there?”  
I nod down to the record in my hands and the look on his face softens.  
“Oh, man,” he sympathizes with me.  
“Yeah. Yeah, I was just—having a moment, if you will.” He shows me a sad smile and pats my shoulder.  
“So you found that radar detector,” I start again, leaning the records back and nodding at the gun in his hand.  
“There is in fact this radar detector—apparently the drones are becoming… quite the problem here in Boston. Not so much New York City, probably because it's bigger and there's more background noise going on, but here. I also found a book on how to do code so you and I can perhaps get into hacking and shit like that. The lady in the back said it's all cheap-o so anyone can get this stuff and figure the way around it.”  
“Okay. So I'm assuming you wanna get some things.”  
“Well, yeah. If we're gonna be figuring out what's up with Maya and her family, surely we need some help that isn't a bunch of humans who are as clueless as we are when it comes to this sort of thing.” He then leads me into the back of the shop, past all the records in their respective alphabetical order, and past a big black velvet curtain, where we're met with all manner of radar detectors, metal detectors, a couple of Geiger counters, all kinds of stuff for our tech exploring needs. Some of these are beyond my comprehension, the country boy hick I am who can barely figure out how to work the thermostat in his apartment much less some of these tiny tools for, what I'm suspecting, very delicate surgery.  
Lars is eager to get himself and myself that radar detector, as well as the aforementioned book, and a thing with what a touch screen, and I flash back on the touch screen menus back in the cafe in Ballard. Once he has a burlap sack full of stuff, he returns to me and the little Geiger counter on the shelf that keeps grabbing my attention. I'm definitely in a mood for trouble now, for snooping around and figuring shit out. Neither me nor Lars have much to lose, but everything to gain.  
“I don't think we'll be near any radiation, Joey,” he assures me, slinging the sack over his shoulder.  
“I hope not.”  
We both thank the lady and head on out of there, and back through the shop to the front door. I feel my stomach rumbling and I remember the bakery but I don't remember where it is now after all those roundabouts. I take my mirrors out of my coat pocket and put them back on for the venture back outside.  
“I am—so—hungry,” I tell him as I push open the door.  
“That makes two of us,” he says, putting his shades back on.  
We're standing outside, but I notice the glare is starting to fade. I glance up to the pure white sky and the sight of thick heavy rain clouds forming overhead.  
“We should probably go back in,” I tell him.  
“Or find some place to get something to eat—oh, wait, there's Marcia!”  
I lower my gaze to find Marcia and Sonia, walking the other way, both of them carrying paper bags in their arms.  
“Marcia!” Lars shouts, his voice echoing over the cobblestones. They turn around to see us, and Sonia mouths, “hey!” at us.  
He darts over the cobblestones to meet up with them, and I follow him. I don't know what they're doing here but I'm sure they can help the two of us get something to eat.


	31. (a bunch of donuts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “See, Mr. Littman, what you're doing is you're just making the top. You have to make the whole muffin and then—you take the top off. Also, about the sign… it's not 'Top of the Muffin TO YOU!' It's 'Top of the Muffin to Ya'.”  
> -Elaine Bennes

“What're you guys doing here?” Sonia asks us once we reach within their earshot. She adjusts her grip on the paper bag in her arms. The two of them, too, are wearing shades to protect their eyes from the white glare in the sky.  
“We should ask you ladies the same thing,” I tell her as Lars puts his free arm around her body, followed by Marcia: she smiles at me and puckers her lips at me. I show her a kind smile. It's all I can do for her.  
“We were just picking up some things for my boss,” she replies to us.  
“Yeah, they have opened a bakery about a block away from here,” Sonia adds. “I guess Sandra picked a good spot, Marsh.” She nods to the music shop across the street.  
“Indeed she did, Sonia.”  
“We were just discussing what to have for breakfast,” Lars informs them, adjusting the sack over his shoulder.  
“Oh!” Marcia declares, giving her hair a little toss back with a flick of her head. “Well, why don't you boys come with us? Sandra was just cooking up a fresh batch of donuts and blondies when we left the bakery a little while ago.”  
“Ooh! I love the donuts,” Lars pipes up.  
“I'm up for anything, to be frank,” I chime in. “Think it might rain, too.”  
“Well, come on, boys!” Sonia declares. “Follow us.”  
They lead us down the brick sidewalk towards the next roundabout, one with a neat cluster of bushes in the center, so much that it reminds me of the rose garden over in Portland. Once we're halfway around, they step off the sidewalk to the right towards a cute little two storied gray building with two bright lit front windows, both of them bearing the sight of display shelves full of cakes and brownies and breads and all manner of things that are making me even hungrier. Written in bright pink lettering on the window to the right it says:

“Smell the Magic  
Established, June 1979. Portland, Oregon.”

“I still think this is the most appropriate name ever,” Lars remarks as he lunges around them to catch the door. He holds it open for the two of them as well as me. Once he closes the door behind him, I remove my shades.  
First of all, it smells divine in here, of freshly baked bread and caramelized sugar that probably went over the top of even fresher donuts right out of the oven. Second, to the right of me stands two rows of metal shelves, all of them holding anything from a dozen chocolate donuts to fruit pies to raspberry danishes. To the left is a low display case showing cute little cakes, cupcakes, pies, brownies, blondies, and of course, even more donuts. I almost want to faint, not from hunger but the fact I just stepped into part two of Avalon; part one being the music shop.  
“Like what you see in here, Joe?” Sonia teases me as she sets the paper bag down on the counter between the cash register and the display case.  
“Me, too, man,” Lars agrees with me as he slings the burlap sack down from his shoulder towards his knees. “Now you know why I have gained and lost a lot of weight.”  
“I swear to God, there's enough in here to send you, me, and these two chickadees here into a diabetic coma three times over,” I tell them in a single breath. “I love it.”  
He then walks towards the door on the other side of the room with the sack down by the side of his knee. Marcia rounds the other side of the display case and walks along back there; at one point, she stoops over to set down the paper sack in her arms on something. Her hands reach up to the top of the case to set down a couple of big pale green granny Smith apples that just make the back of my jaw looking at them. She follows it up with four of those big chocolate bars that are utterly chockful of cocoa.  
“Marcia, you're gonna make Joey faint!” Lars laughs as he pushes open the door with his foot; meanwhile, she's setting down a bag of red cherries and another one of raspberries.  
“You're killin' me,” I groan out, rubbing my stomach.  
“I think there are some day olds right next to you, Sonia,” Marcia informs her as she stands upright and folds the paper bag in half. Sonia turns to look at some of the small cardboard boxes on the wooden rack next to her there on the shelf behind the cash register.  
“Oh, yeah!” she declares, gesturing to the rack. “There's muffins, donuts, danishes, and a couple of Napoleons over here, Joey.”  
“I can have some?” I ask her, feeling like a little boy in a candy store.  
“Yeah, help yourself!” Marcia insists. “Those are usually the goods that are going to be thrown out in about a day, so have at it, Joe.”  
I rub my hands together as I come closer to the rack. On the bottom shelf is about a dozen separated layered puffy pastry cakes with pale white custard about the size of my fist and a cupcake. I look closer to find the label on the side of one of those dozen reading they're each Napoleons. Above that shelf is one with two dozen donuts. Above that is a box of four blueberry muffins. I do in fact like blueberry muffins. So I take that plus two of the Napoleons down below, one for myself and one for Lars, my partner in crime. I've got the muffins up against my chest and I'm cradling both Napoleons in my right hand.  
The door is hanging ajar as I make my way there into that next room, which I find is actually the kitchen from the ovens to the left of me and the little bright red fridge right in front of me: one of the ovens is going at the moment, baking I would think blondies or donuts. Lars, meanwhile, is seated on an empty milk crate, right next to a full rack of bare, raw donuts ready to be baked. He's hunched over something on the milk crate in front of him; he lifts his head to see me.  
“Oi,” he greets me, and his face lights up at the sight of the muffins and the Napoleons in my hands. “Good man. Have a seat.”  
“Next to this whole bunch of donuts? Nah, you're the good man.”  
I set the muffins down on another milk crate next to him and hand him the Napoleons before I have a seat myself. Once I have myself organized, he hands me the one I grabbed for myself and I open the little box. I take in a whiff of that crispy, sugar laden puff pastry.  
Oh, man.  
I pick it up by the sides and take a bite. I can't get it into my mouth faster. I'm also way hungrier than I had anticipated. I take my time on it but I also quickly eat it because I have to.  
Even though it's a day old, the custard is still creamy and lush—I can only imagine what it must've been like straight out of the oven!  
Lars has a bite of his Napoleon and, like me, he can't get it into his mouth faster even while examining the radar detector he had just bought.  
“God—I miss their baking sometimes,” he admits to me with his mouth full of pastry. “These are exquisite and just excellent, even right off of the rack.”  
I shove the last bite into my mouth and then I turn to the muffins. I take a whiff of those as soon as I open it up.  
A little more subtle, especially since the blueberries still look quite ripe. I think those blondies baking behind us is stealing their thunder. Not that I'm complaining, of course.  
I take one out and peel back the paper. I hear Marcia and Sonia talking about something in the next room, but my focus on this beauty in my fingers. I nibble on the top first, and I follow it up with a gentle bite. I could really use a glass of milk, or better yet, a cup of coffee, right about now.  
“Bostonians are lucky people, lemme tell you,” I say to him with my mouth full of muffin: the blueberries make the back of my jaw tingle.  
“Rochester's getting a Smell the Magic, though, Joey!” Marcia declares from the next room.  
“Hell to the yes!” I tip my head back and pump my fist into the air before taking another bite of muffin.  
“Those blondies—whatever's cooking in the oven here,” Lars pipes up again after swallowing down his last bite of Napoleon. He still has his head bowed over the radar detector; “they smell absolutely incredible, Marcia.”  
“Those are in fact a fresh batch of blondies,” she replies, still from the next room. “With white chocolate, brown sugar, and a little kiss of bourbon.”  
“Oh, my God,” I moan out with my mouth full once again.  
“God damn!” Lars exclaims, as he brings the radar detector closer to his face. “Oh, here we go.”  
He pushes a button on the butt of the detector and it makes a soft beeping noise. There's a low drumming noise on the ceiling over our heads: it's raining.  
“It's funny, 'cause I'd usually think a radar detector looks like a Walkman,” I confess to him before taking another bite.  
“I thought the same thing!” he answers, examining the handle better. “Like it's a little Walkman looking thing that sticks to the inside of the windscreen.”  
“Yeah, when you first showed it to me, I thought it was a label maker.”  
He laughs at that. “Well, that's what the lady told me back at the shop, that is this in fact detects radar from the drones. I guess this disc right here shows what's on the waves. See, we're not getting a reading here because we're in a safe place here in the bakery. I am getting a little detection—I'm guessing from the ovens right here next to us. Oh, wait, hang on—”  
I hesitate as I'm reaching for a second muffin. He's examining the disc with a stern look upon his face. I hang there with the second muffin in my hand and my stomach already feeling a lot better feeling a lot fuller. It's silent in that back room except for Marcia and Sonia's quiet conversing with each other about something and the rain on the roof.  
“Good thing we got here in time,” I note at the noise above us.  
“I know,” he says absently. The look on his face never changes for a good long minute, and then he raises his eyebrows in surprise.  
“What's the matter?”  
“This can't be good, Joey.”  
“Well, what does it say?”  
“It's not saying anything, but rather it's showing me all these tiny dots all over the disc. They're all moving very slowly. Hang on, it's calculating—”  
There's a pause, and then—  
“Drones,” he answers.  
“Drones?”  
“Drones. That's what the reading is telling me.”  
I crane my neck for a better look at the disc: there's like an intricate white square web over the top and it's showing a swarm of tiny black donut shaped dots, like pinholes all over it, or rather a bunch of donuts. A bunch of tiny donuts. They're all in fact moving very slowly. There has to be dozens of them.  
“The drones are everywhere,” he tells me in a low voice, and I think back to when that one was over our heads over by the Morlentes' house. The sheer terror I felt when it was in our presence. “If I didn't know better, I'd swear Boston's getting invaded.”  
“Well, why don't we just go back upstate?” I suggest to him. “I have the arrowhead in my coat pocket right now.”  
“I don't want to leave Marcia and Sonia here.” He finally lifts his gaze to me.  
“Oh, right. Well, they can come with us.”  
“Not like this, no, they can't.”  
“Well, what do we do? Drones are everywhere and Maya and her foster dad are a strange case.”  
“Let's just stay here for a little bit. As far as anyone knows, this is just a bakery. There's nothing back here that can't be trusted.”  
“And if nothing, we're surrounded by things to give our stomachs what for.”  
“Exactly!”


	32. ("that's a lot of potatoes!")

It's about four o'clock in the afternoon when Marcia's boss Sandra shows up at the bakery. She's an older, heavyset lady with shocking black hair styled up in a messy bun atop her head, and a bunch of bracelets on each of her wrists, and fiery red nails to match her and Marcia's red aprons. She greeted me with the biggest, most jovial smile, such that I would think it'd light up a whole room. Meanwhile, we had witnessed Marcia herself take out batches of blondies while putting in those fresh raw donuts right next to us into the hot ovens. I was dead wrong about her: she's a formidable baker and her food in fact has a lot of heart to it. The muffins Lars and I had for breakfast were delicious: light and fluffy, and even cold right out from the box, they felt like I was indulging in a little piece of heaven. All afternoon, Lars and I watched her and Sandra make up these donuts, these chocolate donuts with a fiery red glaze on the top—we even got a free one each! And it was like receiving a hug from the inside.  
Lars was right about both her as well as Sonia. She's a good person, if a bit battered from her break up, but I can't reciprocate the attraction for her like what she feels for me. There's nothing I can do about it, either. Oh, well. It is what it is, as much as I don't want to say that.  
It's around five thirty, and I'm starting to get a hankering for some actual dinner but it's still pouring rain outside and Lars' radar detector is still showing that swarm of little donut shaped dots that indicate the drones.  
“They give off radar,” he earlier explained to Sandra, who prior to then had no idea what the drones were—in her defense, I didn't even know what they were until just recently. “That's what the lady in the shop told me and that's what this detector here is telling us at the moment.”  
I'm sitting there on the milk crate with the last bites of donut in my fingers, and I really wish I had a glass of milk with me. I've been eating nothing but pastry all day: I think I deserve a glass of milk.  
I asked Sandra if there was any in the fridge in the back of the kitchen here and she told there might be some in the room downstairs. She gestured to the door near the back of the kitchen: right next to that is a small laundry chute looking thing on the wall.  
“Oh, you're gonna make me go downstairs now?” I tease her, and the three of them laugh at that.  
“That little chute next to the door, by the way, is the dumb waiter,” she explains.  
“I feel like that was intentional,” I retort to her and they laugh again.  
“Also, leave that door open, Joey,” Marcia advises me as she's glazing a few donuts at the same time.  
“Yeah, it has a tendency to stick,” Sandra adds to it.  
“Alright.” I then turn to Lars, who's still got his full attention directed onto the radar detector.  
“You want anything, dude?” I ask him.  
“I could use some milk myself,” he replies, knitting his eyebrows together and never lifting his gaze from the dish atop the detector.  
“Alright—” I take off my coat because it's so warm and toasty in here, and lay it on the milk crate I was sitting on, and make my way over to the door and the dumb waiter. I open the door to reveal a smooth stairwell with rich dark red walls and a line of amber lights on the ceiling. Good thing I took my coat off because it's actually a little hot in here.  
I leave the door ajar by about an inch like they told me and I descend the stairs.  
I ate too much: it feels like I swallowed a big heavy rock. It's that night in the Bronx again, except I'm not driving.  
But I reach the bottom of the stairs and glance around the narrow hallway here. I feel bad for Lars and Marcia because it's narrow even for myself. Everything is a shade of rich red and the whole corridor is lit by more of those amber lights. The warm aroma of the blondies and the donuts is giving way to that smell of potatoes again.  
It's particularly strong as I reach a corner directing me left. This is where the red carpet ends and gives way to cold stone. This must be the place: I hear a refrigerator running.  
The soles of my boots are clomping on the stone like a pair of horse hooves.  
I don't see the half frozen puddle on the floor near the fridge door.  
And I fall right on my ass.  
And I kick the door open with my boots, these cheap ass leather boots I found at Goodwill for about five bucks. I kicked a door open with these.  
I catch myself on the door frame. My butt is wet and my legs are extended.  
“Whoa—” I manage to breathe out, running my free hand through my hair.  
“Get out of here!”  
I lift my head for a look at where I fell into. A big storage room—pretty damn big, too, about the size of a house—filled with nothing but potatoes. Everything from brown Idaho potatoes to those tiny white ones the size of a ping pong ball. I shuffle my feet on the floor of the doorway to try and get myself up, but I'm stunned by the utter avalanche of potatoes in here. There's an older gentleman with a headset on over his ears and a remote control in his hands.  
“Get out of here!” he repeats in a Boston accent.  
“Jesus Christ Almighty, that's a lot of potatoes!”  
“Get out!”  
I scramble to my feet and yank the door closed. I wipe off the seat of my jeans, which is wet from the puddle there. It's just water. But still: I've got a wet butt now. And I'm feeling a little disoriented now: it's all this pastry in my stomach.  
I spot the next door over and push that open.  
This is without a doubt the big refrigerator, where they keep the eggs, the butter, the milk, the buttermilk, and of course, the booze they put in the donuts and the blondies. I have a chill run up my spine from the cold air around me brushing up against the wet spot on my jeans. I rub my upper arms as I make my way over to a stack of milk crates, all of which are filled with glass milk bottles. I swipe two of them and return to the door when the guy from the next room over is standing there in the doorway with his hands pressed to his hips.  
“What do you think you're doin'?” he demands. “Where do you think you're goin' with those?”  
“I just—wanted a glass of milk,” I admit to him.  
“No. Nuh-uh. No way.”  
“Oh, come on, guy, my friend and I ate like a whole week's worth of pastries today—I think I deserve a glass of milk to wash it down.”  
“We've gotta ration, boy.”  
“Excuse me?” It's one thing when Mr. Lang calls me “son”. I get that. It's also one thing when Spence, either of the Greys, or Brick refers to me as “Injun.” They're my friends: they can get away with that. And it's also one thing when a girl who finds me attractive to call me “sweet boy” or some variation of that. I don't, however, appreciate being just called “boy”, especially by some guy who told me to get away from the potato room. It's like the “n” word or, worse, “guinea”.  
“I said, we've gotta ration.”  
“No, what was that last thing you said?”  
“Ration.”  
“No, after that. You called me 'boy.'”  
He pauses for a second. It's quiet in there except for the hum of the refrigerator.  
And then he takes the bottles of milk out of my hands. Just takes them.  
“Get back upstairs,” he orders me.  
“Why?”  
“The drones and the world of tomorrow's coming—we don't need outsiders coming in here and stealin' our spare food. Now get back up there.”  
I hang there at the doorway as he returns the bottles into their crate.  
“Well, go on! Get!”  
“Dick,” I tell him before leaving the fridge. I trudge back to the carpeted hallway and back upstairs. I just wanted a glass of milk. And he wouldn't give it to me. Just a glass of milk. Just a glass of milk! Lars isn't going to be pleased by this. In fact, I tell Sandra about it when I return up to the kitchen.  
“Oh, I can't believe that,” she groans, “I'm so sorry, Joey. We have some here in the fridge here—”  
“I don't wanna take that, though. You ladies are using that for your baking.”  
“Um, Sandra?” Lars calls out from the corner. I turn to look at him. He finally lifts his head from the radar detector to show us the look of concern on his face.  
“What's wrong?” she replies, wiping her hands on her bright red apron.  
“You might want to lock the front door,” he advises her.  
“Well, I was going to anyways—we close in about twenty minutes.”  
“But you might want to do it right now, though.”  
“Why, what's going on?” I ask him. He licks his lips; his expression is grave.  
“We've got a freakishly large arachnid problem upon us.”  
“Oh, God, not the spiders again,” I groan aloud as Sandra takes her key out of the front pocket of her apron. I recall all those spiders on the night of the first Soundgarden show over in Buffalo. The memory of it gives me the creepy crawlies.  
“Not spiders,” he corrects me. “Quite worse. Scorpions.”


	33. (the ghostly subway again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When I am king, you will be first against the wall.  
> With your opinion which is of no consequence at all.”  
> -“Paranoid Android”, Radiohead

Sandra is quick to the lock on the handle of the front door to keep the scorpions out there, and then she turns the sign in the window to prove that Smell the Magic is in fact closed for the New Year. Marcia and Sonia close the display case; meanwhile, Lars and I are huddled in the corner once again with the radar detector and that book opened over another milk crate right next to my left knee. The rain is coming down in torrents now—I think it might flood because there's already a good sized river running around the roundabout outside of the bakery here.  
“There are drones utterly everywhere,” Lars informs me.  
“All those little donuts—” I gesture to the dish, which is utterly littered with those markings indicating the drones. Down at the bottom, it gives a key to what's what: the scorpions, meanwhile, are indicated by tiny chevrons. And where there isn't a donut, there's a chevron. Which means we're surrounded by these damned things.  
I can only imagine what the scorpions look like. Are they mutants like the banana slugs? Or are they massive like the spiders? Either one gives me the heebie jeebies. Those big lobster claws, those faceless plated bodies, and of course, those tails. I'm giving myself the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.  
My throat's dry, but at least the pressure is off my stomach a bit. It's gotta be from all of this happening at the moment. That guy downstairs wouldn't give me a glass of milk, I still can't believe that!  
Marcia and Sonia duck into the kitchen right at that moment; the former leans over the stove top of the lead oven to switch it off. The latter squats down in between us and eyes the radar detector.  
“How you boys doing?” she asks us.  
“Thirsty,” Lars replies.  
“And a little tense,” I add to it.  
“What's—all that?” She nods to the dish.  
“The drones and the scorpions headed our way,” he says. “See, there's a key down here—this thing is smart. Picking up—nearly everything that's got a trace of radar or radio waves to it. I only had to point it at the ceiling one time to get this reading—here, let me do it again—”  
He picks up the radar detector by the handle and points it up to the ceiling. If I didn't know, I'd swear he's pointing a label maker at the ceiling. There's silence, except for the rain on the roof over our heads. Then there's a quiet beep.  
He lowers it to better examine the dish and gestures to the top.  
“Yeah, see? It's recalculating—and it did. Wonder how the scorpions are being picked up. Looks they've backed off—unless they're underneath us.” He lifts his gaze to me and I shake my head.  
“I didn't see any downstairs,” I confess to him.  
“Wonder where they could be,” Sonia wonders aloud. Another pause. Then—  
“Oh, my God in heaven.” It dawns on me. And Lars, too, as he gapes at me and his eyes widen.  
Sandra then yelps out from the front room. Marcia leaps back as she barrels into the kitchen.  
“Scorpions!” Sandra shouts as she shuts the door behind her with her apron in hand. Her face is as white as a sheet. “They're crawling all over the outside of the windows.”  
“The only thing more terrifying than a bunch of giant spiders is a bunch of giant scorpions,” I say aloud.  
“I think both are pretty horrifying, Joey,” Lars points out.  
“See, the thing with scorpions is you don't know what happened,” I continue on.  
“Yeah, they're desert creatures,” Sonia tacks on. “It's weird to see them in New England, whereas spiders you can find anywhere in the world.”  
“What should we do?” Marcia asks us. Sandra, who's fanning herself and trying to calm herself down, turns to me.  
“What's it like downstairs?”  
“Aside from the idiot who wouldn't give me a glass of milk? Chilly. And a little wet. Forgot to tell you ladies, I fell on my ass into a puddle down there and my butt's all wet.”  
“Oh, man!” Sonia declares.  
“Yeah, I'll say. At least it's warm in here, though.”  
“Well, I was thinking we could go down there because that's where the stash is,” explains Sandra, “the staples. The dairy, the bread, and the potatoes.”  
“Yeah, that's where the smell of potatoes is coming from!” I say to Lars. “I should tell Angeline that.”  
I stop for a second. I don't know if it's the presence of the drones all around us or what.  
“Angeline!”  
“What about her?” Lars chews on his bottom lip.  
“The drones are in the City! If there's an infestation here, there's gotta be one there 'cause we're so close!”  
“Oh, SHIT!”  
“She also told me if I have any questions, I should ask her.”  
“Well, let's go ask her 'cause—we have tons of questions!”  
“How are we gonna get to New York City, though?” Marcia demands to us as the three of them are now all gathered around us. “It's pouring rain outside and there's scorpions trying to get in.”  
I turn to my coat, folded over on another milk crate, and I pry into the pocket on top. I take out the arrowhead pendant.  
“Of course!” Lars exclaims, switching off the radar detector and sticking it back into the burlap sack.  
“What is that?” Sandra asks me.  
“No ordinary pendant, that's for sure,” I tell her, and I can't resist the grin on my face. I return to Lars. “I just have a question. Can you take stuff with you through the wormhole?”  
“Oh, yes,” he answers, putting the book back in there. “I found that one out pretty quickly after I got my place down in New Orleans.” He slings the sack over his shoulder.  
“Have at it, Joey.”  
I make a wormhole over the empty racks, one that's big enough for all of us to climb through. I focus on the headquarters for the New York Times as I stand to my feet and dive through it with my stomach sucked in. But then I realize I don't remember exactly where it is in the City. I only know it's in the City.  
Shit. Ah, shit.  
It's the French Quarter all over again, especially when I look up and I see I'm in the subway.  
God, not the subway.  
I look behind me to find Lars had landed right on his ass on the cold floor, right next to Marcia and Sonia. And I realize I'm laying face down on a bench. Not a good position to be laying in when the stomach's full of pastries. Sandra, meanwhile, landed upright on the bench next to me.  
“The subway, Joey?” Lars demands to me, his voice echoing over the floor and the walls.  
“Apparently so,” I confess to him. It's cold down here, and I don't know if it's from the rain outside or the fact the tunnels are haunted. I raise my head and lift myself onto my elbows so I'm laying on the bench like a sphinx. I not only landed on a bench but on a disheveled copy of the New York Times itself. I turn it over to the back page: there at the bottom is the address. I lift my head up to examine the wall behind us.  
“Where are we?” I wonder aloud. “Like—what terminal is this? Sandra, is there a plaque over there by you?” She leans to her right.  
“Yeah, right here.”  
“What's it say?”  
“125th Street and Lexington.”  
“125th?”  
“Yeah.”  
I glance back down at the paper.  
“The New York Times is down on 41st and Eighth Avenue—which means—”  
“Manhattan?” Lars wonders aloud, climbing to his feet.  
“This here says we're in Harlem,” Sandra continues.  
“Yeah, 41st is down in the heart of Manhattan. I know that from all the times I hung out with Anthrax.” I turn my head to find Lars, Marcia, and Sonia already to their feet; Sandra stands up from the bench in front of me.  
Ugh. Fine. The subway it is.  
My chest aches from landing on such a hard bench as I pick myself up and straighten myself out. I stand to my feet and guide them towards the platform. The whole station is deserted: we're the only souls in here. Or least, the only souls in here with fleshly bodies. Even the railway is empty.  
“I don't even know if it's in operation right now,” I confess to them, stuffing my hands into my pockets.  
“It's New Year's Eve,” Lars points out as he adjusts the burlap sack over his shoulder, “it's bound to be.”  
“Okay, so how far are we going?” Sandra asks me. “I just want to know.”  
“Basically we're going all the way down towards Time Square and then before we get there, we're hanging a right.”  
“We're definitely not in Portland anymore,” Marcia declares.  
“Not at all. When I was with Anthrax, I found pretty quickly that you better get disoriented easily in order to get lost here, especially once you realize the blocks are organized the way they are. It just seems like a lot if you're an outsider or if you're on foot, on a bus, or in a cab. Five minutes upstate or in over Portland for that matter seems like forever down here. If we're standing here on the one hundred and twenty fifth block of—basically a grid, like the one we saw on the radar detector—assuming there aren't any stops, it's not gonna take very long to get down to forty one. Add to this, you guys don't have to deal with the chilly city folk, too.”  
“Yeah, the worst thing we've gotta deal with is bicyclists who aren't paying attention,” Sonia laughs.  
“There's just—one problem with the subways, though,” Lars says in a low voice.  
“What's that?” asks Sandra.  
“The tunnels are haunted.”  
“They're haunted?”  
“Totally,” I answer for him. I glance down one side of the terminal, down the pitch black tunnel. Nothing there. I take a glimpse down the other way. Nothing there. “He and I were down here the other day—we went through Grand Central, which is right near there—and we actually saw… a ghost.”  
“A boy with no hands and no face,” Lars joins in, shifting his weight. “Glowing bright like a glow stick.”  
“Oh my God.” She sounds appalled by that. “Where did he come from?”  
“No idea,” he confesses. “Not a single idea where he could've come from. I guess there's a whole community of ghosts down here, too. Like—” He stops and I turn to have a look at him pointing to the left of us. “—I believe that's one right there!”  
There's a pale white light emerging from the darkness to our left. It's getting bigger as it's coming closer.  
And then we hear the ungodly metallic shriek of brakes grinding it to a halt.  
“It's the train, Lars!” I shout over it slowing to a stop before us.  
Once it does, the doors slide open and the five of us file into this car near the front. As we're taking our seats on the hard benches, I think back to what Candace had told us about the ghosts down here. And I remember that sign I saw in the Bronx that day I came down here. Yeah, I have no doubt that they like to prey on kids in particular, so I'm riding with my guard fully up and the lapels of my coat covering the bottom half of my face. I still feel like a kid sometimes after all. A kid who's lost in the City.  
When the doors close, I sigh through my nose and close my eyes. Aside from the fact the tunnels are haunted, I really don't know why I'm so nervous. Sonia, who along with Marcia is sitting across from Lars and me, shows me a little smile.  
“You look like a secret agent, Joe,” she cracks.  
“He kinda does,” Marcia joins in.  
Lars mouths something to them and I don't what he said, especially since the train is starting up again and whirring down the pitch dark tunnel. I'll admit it, I'm a little paranoid right now. There's a myriad ghosts down here and we've got a metric shitload of scorpions that may or may not be of unusual size coming after us.  
Once we pass through Grand Central, I feel I've calmed down a great deal and I fold my collars over so I can breathe again. At one point, I look around the car, and I lean past Lars to better examine the one behind us.  
“I just realized we're the only ones in here,” I declare. “That's probably why we're making such excellent time.”  
“We are,” he notes as he takes a look around himself. “Where is everyone?”  
“Also, who's driving the train?” asks Sandra. I take a look to my right to the other side of the car: we're two behind the lead one. Usually there's a guard or someone on board with us, but it's just us. As far as I can tell, there's nobody there.  
“I—I don't know,” I confess to her.  
“Do you know where we're getting off, Joey?” Marcia asks me. There's no signs lit up in here, and usually there is, but it's as if we boarded a train that's out of service that's going nowhere.  
“Here!” I exclaim. “Ring the bell, Lars—”  
Lars reaches up behind him but before he can even touch the thing, there's that shriek of the brakes again. He grips onto the pole next to him and I brace myself. I don't trust this thing. I don't trust whoever's driving, that is if there is anyone there.  
The lights of this next terminal flood into the car. I don't even know where we are.  
“Here?” Lars repeats.  
“Yes!” And I don't hesitate once the doors slide open: he follows me out, then Marcia, Sonia, and Sandra. We gather around a bench in the middle of the platform to regather our bearings, but I keep walking to check out who's up in the front of the car. The windows are dark but as far as I can, there is in fact, nobody there. We were riding on a ghost train. I return to them right as Lars is slinging the burlap sack over his shoulder.  
“Do you know where we are?” Sandra asks me.  
“I don't, but there should be a sign somewhere around here that should tell us—”  
Indeed, there's one on the wall down towards the stairs.  
“42nd Street Bryant Park,” Lars reads aloud. “Where’s that?”  
“If I remember correctly,” I tell them, “I think Angeline's office is right near here. If it is, we're good. If not, you guys can blame me for royally fucking things up.”  
We make our way over to the stairs and ascend into the City, the heart of I think is Manhattan, which is lit up to the brightest neon I have ever seen in the wake of the incoming night. It's like the University District of Seattle all over again but much bigger and with far more overkill. Everything has some trace of neon on it. Everything. Even the crappy bus stop behind us and even the payphones on the corner. I raise a hand to my face to shield my eyes it's so bright.  
“Bloody hell,” Lars remarks, squinting against the bright light.  
“Yeah, I'd say Maxwell has maxed out here,” I declare. “Let's walk. I think we got off at the wrong place. It's not easy to get lost here but it is easy to get turned around, though.”  
“I think we did in fact get off at the wrong place, Joey,” Lars adds as the five of us start walking up the street, “because there's Grand Central, also known as 42nd Street. And we should've gotten off there!”  
“Like I said—you guys can blame me for royally fucking things up, 'cause I'm a country boy. I ain't from the City.”


	34. (lars lost another bet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday Lars!!

December 31, 1988. Manhattan, New York.  
We're walking up the block, up this one way street, into this fierce and bright jungle in all of its . I can probably count on one hand how many cars went past us on the street here. The buildings themselves, meanwhile, are becoming increasingly like the ones up in the Bronx, albeit with extra neon. I'm squinting through the bright light and it's not so much aching my eyes as it is just downright annoying. I'm lifting my head to the streetlights on the next corner to find the blue neon lights pulsing on the poles as if it's alive and crawling, like a bunch of banana slugs. It's like it's attaching itself onto whatever is contextual and sending it years into the future. I can actually see this when we're standing there at the crosswalk waiting for the hovering stoplight to change to green.  
Lars and Marcia huddle closer to me as we're standing there waiting.  
“Those pastries by the way were to die for,” I tell her.  
“Per usual just outright delicious,” he chimes in, shielding his eyes with his free hand.  
“So—So outright Joeylicious!” she declares over the noise of the street, and that gets a laugh out of all five of us. The light turns green and we cross towards the other side. This street seems to go on forever, and once we're at the other side, I'm about ready to put my shades back on when I hear a gasp behind me.  
“Oh, look!” Sonia points in front of us. “The New York Times!” I shield my eyes again to find that calligraphy lettering outside of a building about a hundred feet in front of us.  
“Oh, good eyes, Sonia!” I tell her, and the five of us make a run for it up the block. I don't even know if it's open because it's nighttime and it's New Year's Eve.  
But I reach the front steps and push the door open with ease. The hallways are dim and the whole place smells of old paper and new wood. Now if I can just remember which floor I was on when I came here with her…  
“Angeline!” I call out as I'm running down the dark hallway to the left of the door towards the elevator. “Ange—”  
I trip on a piece of uprooted carpet.  
I fall face first onto the carpet.  
And then I pick myself back up again as if it never happened.  
“I'm okay!” I call out to them with a wave of my hand.  
“Quite the somersault you just did there, Joe,” Sandra remarks from down the hall.  
“He's a hockey player, Sandra,” Lars points out; I lean forward to push the button of the elevator; “he's spry and supple like the branches of a weeping willow tree.”  
“He's our upstateinjunplayalistequinesinger,” Sonia cracks, and that gets a big laugh out of me.  
The elevator makes a soft ding and the doors slide open for us. It's a lot like the elevator in Candace's apartment building, from the rickety swiveling noise beneath us to the fact it sways about inside of the shaft with the five of us in there, but instead of those golden yellow lights, we have a single line of white neon underneath the bar. I chew on my bottom lip as we keep rising up towards the top of the building. I really have no idea where we're going, but then I feel something brush against the back of my thigh.  
I take a look down at the sight of a greenish hue against the white light radiating behind me.  
There's that feeling of fingers on the back of my thigh and on the side of my knee. Light feathery fingers, kind of like how Nerissa likes to touch me but I know it's not her. She's not glowing green.  
I look over at Lars, who's huddled over in the corner like he's cold.  
The elevator stops and the touching feeling on the back of my thigh rises up like she's fondling me. The doors open and I'm the first one out of there.  
The hall is dark except for a few back lights down to our right.  
“Thing is I don't even know if she's in,” I confess to them as we make our way down the corridor towards what I think is Angeline's office. Although it does feel familiar here.  
Yeah, it is! This is the place!  
It's doubly confirmed by the sight of the plaque next to a door on the left side of the hall.  
“Angeline Belotti, that's her,” I tell them. I raise a hand and knock on the panel twice. Silence. I knock again. Nothing.  
I should've known. It's New Year's Eve, so of course Angeline's not in right now. And I have the file she gave me back home so it's not like I can easily call her at the moment.  
“Maybe we should leave a note,” Sandra suggests.  
“We?” Lars corrects her.  
“You guys, I should say.”  
“It's a shame, I really wanted you ladies to meet Angeline, too,” I confess to them, turning back to face their shadowy faces. I run my fingers through my black curls. “She's been helping me in particular, so much with figuring out Maya and whatnot.”  
I take a glimpse over at Sonia, who looks like she's about ready to collapse. It's chilly and dark in here, but at least it's away from the bright lights. I think back to when I first came here with Angeline, and the fact she had to close the shades over her window.  
“Then again, what am I going to say to her?” I wonder aloud.  
“Let's see, when you came here before with her,” Lars starts, “how did you leave and get back upstate?”  
“Through a wormhole. It's right there in fact.” I gesture down the hall at the sight of the piece of what resembles lace floating mid air over the wall. “I know that thing's moved, too, 'cause it was like right here.”  
“Should we go back to Portland?” Marcia asks Sandra.  
“Why do you guys want to go back to Portland?” Lars quips at her, adjusting his grip on the burlap sack over his shoulder.  
“We live there, remember?” Sonia points out to him.  
“And this was kind of anticlimactic, too,” Sandra adds. “So—” She shrugs at us. “—sorry fellas, but Marcia and I have a business to run, and it starts with the three of us returning upstate so we can take the next flight back to Oregon.”  
“And I start school soon,” Sonia adds.  
“What, you can't just leave us here!” he exclaims.  
“Yeah, and you'll end up at my place, too,” I point out.  
“We'll lock the door, Joey,” she assures me, “I promise.”  
And without another word, the three of them stride down to the wormhole and climb through it, back upstate. Lars turns to gape at me in the dim light; I shake my head.  
“She grabbed,” I mutter to him, “my butt.”  
“Who did?” He raises his eyebrows at me.  
“The Lady in Green.”  
“Oh. For a second, I thought you were gonna say Marcia.”  
“Nah. She almost did, though. Okay, so what're we gonna do now? Angeline isn't here, they just left, and we're stuck here in Manhattan because of those fucking drones. We're stuck here out of sheer fear. What do we do?”  
“Well,” he starts, lowering the burlap sack onto the carpet between us. “We have all of these tools with us. A radar detector, a book on how to do coding and hacking, a kit on how to implement said coding and hacking—” Then again, if all else fails, we can just smash it. “—a thing that measures radio waves, two pairs of infrared goggles—one for you, one for myself—a hose, a funnel, a couple of magnets, a notepad, a rubber mallet, and a brick.”  
“The hell we doing with a brick?” I press my hands to my hips.  
“I don't really know. The lady in the shop back in Boston told me to take it because it could be helpful in some way. I also got a book on what to do when someone is in crisis, and—” He pauses. And then he puts the base of his palm against his forehead. “Oh, man!”  
“What's the matter?”  
“I lost another bet,” he tells me.  
“How so?”  
“I made a bet with Sonia of all people, that if I could keep my mouth shut on something that Maya told her when she took her to the hospital, like when she took her down to Syracuse that time, that I could get her a new Bible because the one she was looking for—remember that one?”  
“How could I forget. What was wrong with it?”  
“Yeah, well… apparently, Joey… do you have the pendant on you?”  
I take the arrowhead out of my coat pocket.  
“Right here.” And I hand it to him. And he points it to the wall and makes an X right above it. A wormhole opens, even though there's that other one just right down the hall from here. But he coaxes me inside of it with him.


	35. (the church corridor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Bite my tongue, bide my time,  
> wearing a warning sign.  
> wait ‘til the world is mine.  
> Visions I vandalize,  
> cold in my kingdom size,  
> fell for these ocean eyes.”  
> -”you should see me in a crown”, Billie Eilish

Lars pretty much swan dives onto the floor in front of us with the burlap sack resting on his back. Meanwhile, I fall right onto my side because I was following him through the wormhole. My feet fly up into the air and then back down onto the floor. I'm dizzy, dizzier than any time I had ever spun myself into circles on the hockey rink. I open my eyes to behold the sight of Jesus and the Virgin Mary looming on the ceiling over me. And it takes me a second to realize they're merely paintings.  
I push myself onto my elbows and glance around the place. We had fallen into a dark vacant church somewhere that I don't know and probably won't recognize: the sole light is coming from the candles near the front steps.  
“The hell?” I groan out, flexing my back. “Did we like fall into the Sistine Chapel?”  
“Nope,” he replies; I lift my head to find him rounding to the left of me. He stretches his free hand in order to help me up. “Not even close, actually. We are in your neck of the woods, in fact. Lovely North Syracuse.”  
Once I'm standing upright and onto my feet, I take a look around the dark heavy wooden pews. I have a weird gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach and I know for a fact it's not from the fact I had eaten about three days worth of pastries all afternoon. I don't feel right here.  
Lars gives his smooth hair a toss back from his chest and his shoulder with a flick of his head.  
“Sonia told me about this church,” he explains, “how Maya told her about it and the things that went down here when she and Candace were being dragged to church because Michael wanted them to. She even showed it to me. Do you know about this place?”  
“I have been near here—just from living so close and my parents being so close by on top of that. We're in North Syracuse, you said?”  
“Yes. Little less than an hour away from Oswego.”  
I stare straight ahead to the podium and the twin stained glass windows. There's a giant black wooden cross resting up against the wall right in between the windows. The lit candles only make the shadows on the arms of the cross longer and darker. The whole platform with the podium is stark and empty and dark, only lit by that single row of pale white candles. Everything in here is cavernous and quiet aside from my own heartbeat thundering in my ears and Lars sniffling.  
“See, Maya told me she had come up this way,” I recall, “towards Oswego from the City—either this is the church she was talking about or she was talking about another one.”  
“When was that?”  
“Before I found her. Like right before I found her.”  
“That's interesting because—she told Sonia that she had come here looking for you.”  
“Looking for me?”  
“Yeah. I asked why here—of all places in upstate New York Joey could've run off to, here—and Maya didn't tell her.”  
“Yeah, and top it off, I'm not very religious so that's—strange. That's strange that she would even come to a church looking for me.”  
“But that was her goal, though. Sonia took her to the hospital down in town and she escaped. Opened the door and rolled out of the car onto the freeway at sixty miles an hour.”  
“Jesus Christ!” My voice echoes over the carpet in front of us. I turn to look at the cross on the wall. “I mean, Jesus Christ! It's a miracle she survived that!”  
“I mean—you're not wrong, dude!” Lars declares, rustling his coat. “But the last thing Sonia heard from her was that she wanted to run back to you. She wanted to know where you were, so she came here.”  
“Came here but not back to Oswego.”  
“Because you weren't in town. Sonia said you were over in the Northwest with me.”  
“Did she tell Sonia why she wanted to see me again?”  
“Nope. Just said 'I need to see Joey' and rolled right out of the car.”  
I amble towards the podium and the stairs, which are steep much to my surprise. There's a whole vat of holy water sitting behind the podium. At least I think it's holy water. The nearby candle light makes it appear black as night. I take a glimpse into my reflection in the water: the candle light is making my face appear as a half moon, my eyes even more deep set than they actually are, and my hair even blacker as it dangles down towards the water. The last time I took a good look at myself, my face was scrawny and hollow but even in this terrible lighting, I can see I'm a little bit fuller but a lot more pale. It could just be from the terrible lighting but that's what I see here in the holy water. That I'm getting my baby face back!  
I also catch a glimpse of a floating skull head above me. I didn't even know she was there, and I would have felt her at first. So I lift my head for a better look at her.  
“Hey, Death—what're you doing here?”  
She drifts back away from me and the holy water, her black robes drifting back from her skeleton head and hands. I gaze out towards the pews and the sight of Lars watching her with intent. She floats towards the other side of the steps and then gestures up to the ceiling with her hand open. It's like she's summoning something. But she isn't.  
I take a look up, at the rising ceiling with the paintings of Jesus and Mary and the high arches up there.  
Even by the light of the candles, I can make out the faint outlines of glass tubes up there. Glass tubes sticking to the wooden beams holding up the ceiling.  
I take a glance to my right, at those same glass tubes on the wall. Even with the shitty lighting, I can make out an odd curving shape of a couple of them. But I can't exactly make of what it's trying to be, though.  
“What the hell,” I mutter aloud, and then I turn my head the other way. “Lars, hand me that candle closest to you. Pretty please.”  
He sets down the burlap sack before reaching over to the candle holder next to him for that smooth narrow white candle. He holds it with two hands like he's a choir boy as he ascends the steps towards me. He doesn't hand it to me but rather shines it over the tubes on the wall.  
They're transparent but we can make out what they are from the shadows made by the glass. They're curved in the shape of letters. Letters turned onto their side.  
“It's my name,” I tell him. “My full given name, too. Not Belladonna, but Bellardini.”  
“And my full name, too,” he adds as he's raising the candle higher to make out even more of those tubes spelling out “LARS ULRICH”. He lowers his arm and turns to me with a concerned look upon his face.  
“I don't get it,” he confesses to me.  
“I don't get it, either—wait.” I raise a hand to him to find Death guiding us away from the platform. I gesture for him to follow both me and her. We descend the steps and then he hands me the candle so he can carry the burlap sack over his shoulder again. The two of us then walk down the church corridor, following the Grim Reaper towards the doors on the other side.  
“Where is she taking us?” he asks me in a hushed whisper.  
“I have no idea,” I admit to him. She slips through the tiny slit in the doors whereas I push the one on the right open all the way. We're in the front hallway, which is even darker than the front of the church: the sole light comes from the candle in my hand.  
I glance to my left to find only empty darkness. To the right, even more darkness.  
We're the only souls here.  
“Joey, look!” Lars, who's right behind me, points past me to the bulletin board right in front of us. I take a step closer to the board and hold the candle up to the papers, the church announcements, all of it.  
And then, tucked in the bottom right hand corner of the board, I find the bottom half of an old obituary celebrating the life of a nurse named Janet Snow.  
“Janet Snow,” I mutter aloud.  
“That can't be Mrs. Snow, can it?” he asks me.  
“I have no idea. It's just the bottom of the obit, too, so there's no picture here. In other words, I can't say for sure. I've only known her as Mrs. Snow, too. It says here she was a nurse and a member of the clergy here at this church. It says here she died by suicide by ingesting—belladonna berries.”  
I glance back at Lars, who's licking his lips and giving me a rather frightened look with those widened eyes. I turn my head to the left to find looming in the darkness is Death herself, gesturing for us to come on down the corridor. The floor is hard and hollow sounding underneath our boots. Meanwhile, I can tell that there are no portraits on the corridor walls. There aren't even any windows here.  
I sigh through my nose and, using nothing but the candle, I follow her down the darkness. The rustling of his coat and the burlap sack tell me that Lars is still right behind me. He curses something in Danish to himself.  
“You alright back there?” I ask him.  
“Yeah, I just,” he hesitates to adjust the sack on his back, “—I just wish I got a flashlight when we were in Boston.”  
“When we get back to my place, I'll search around for my flashlight. Might be in my car, I don't know.”  
She leads us all the way down to the door of what I think is a closet. I stop right in front of the door and glance over at her.  
“I'm not dead, I swear,” I assure her. I see her nod her skull head in affirmation, and I open the door.  
It is in fact just a closet. But the only thing that's in here, amongst the empty shelves, is white rope. Smooth white rope like the one that was wrapped around Maya's ankles when I found her. The very sight of it causes me to step back from it. It's also incredibly cold in there.  
I turn my head again to the left to see if Death is still there by our side. She vanished into the darkness next to us. The only thing that's there is a pair of chairs and the door out to the dim lit vacant parking lot.  
“That looks like the rope that was around Maya's ankles when I found her,” I explain to Lars.  
“Holy shit,” he breathes out.  
“Yeah.”  
“Exactly like it?”  
“Exactly like it.”  
In the candle light, I can make out the sight of the color completely leaving his face.  
“I've seen enough,” I tell him, “—and the door's right there. Let's get the hell out of here. This is getting weird.”  
“Very much so. I—I don't even know what to say right now.”  
“And not for nothing, it is New Year's, after all.”  
“It is in fact, New Year's Eve.”


	36. (the other side of town)

December 31, 1988. North Syracuse, New York.  
It's freezing outside as Lars and I are heading out of the church: he holds the door open for me so I can blow out the candle and set it down on the chair. I duck out of there first and then he follows me to the frigid black night. I have no idea what time it is, but I know it's mere hours before the New Year.  
He follows me out with the sack slung over his shoulder, down the front steps and onto the blackened pavement down below. I'm starting to feel hungry now and I don't feel like walking so fast but I have to. Death is nowhere to be seen, but she is all around us in the scraggly black trees, the damp chill overhanging us, and the dark parking lot before us, lit by only a couple of orange streetlamps on the sidewalk up ahead. I think it might snow again at some point.  
“Joey—hey, Joe, wait up!”  
I halt right there inside of a parking spot to wait for Lars to play catch up with me.  
“Forgive me, I just,” I begin once he's within earshot, “—I just—”  
“Yeah. It's a lot to handle at the moment.”  
We walk side by side across the black ground towards the street.  
“A lot to handle indeed,” I agree with him. “I don't even know where to begin with all of this, to be honest.”  
“I feel like I understand everything that's going on, but at the same I don't,” he replies in a single breath.  
“Me, too. So many clues, but… it's wondering where and how to piece 'em together is what's stumping me. Like I don't even know what to make of that obit in there, for starters.”  
“Janet Snow, it said her name was.”  
“Yeah. I always referred to Mrs. Snow as that because she always shows up after the snow comes in. That's gotta be just a coincidence.”  
“I can hope that, Joey. Died by ingesting belladonna berries… I didn't even know those plants grew up here.”  
“I don't think they do. It's too cold. I also can't get my head around the fact our names were inscribed up on the wall like that.”  
“Oh, I'm trippin' balls on that. They looked like neon lights, too. Neon lights that hadn't been lit up as of yet.”  
“Exactly!”  
We reach the street, which is deserted for the evening. We glance up and down either way of the street for any sign of life. For crying out loud, it's New Year's Eve and this place is deader than a graveyard.  
“Quite the quiet area you live in, Joey,” Lars remarks, adjusting the sack over his shoulder. He then gasps. “Oh! Your friend Brick!”  
“Oh, SHIT!” My voice echoes over the empty street. I've been so distracted by everything that I was led away by my own best friend. Well, I feel like a jackass now. “But wait a minute. It's clear on the other side of town, though. I also don't know what time it is, either. I don't even know if the buses are running right now, even with Syracuse being the big city of upstate.”  
“Well, fuck, man. What do we do?”  
I fetch up a sigh and stuff my hands into my pockets. I have nothing in there. And then I remember I gave the pendant to Lars.  
“I also don't feel like taking the arrowhead over there, either,” I confess to him. “For all we know, visiting hours could be up.”  
“I know. So—what do we do?”  
“Let's take a walk. I've been here a few times with cover bands and with the Circle Jerks, too. Let's see if we can find a Denny's around here…”  
“You and going to Denny's,” he teases me.  
“The guys and I've always liked going there because they're open late. We play long and hard some days and sometimes there isn't much to go about at like twelve o'clock at night. And, y'know, sometimes a guys just wants some French fries and a cup of coffee around then.”  
“Oh. Well—that actually makes sense. But which way do we go, though?”  
I turn my head to the right to find the street's curving into the darkness. I have to confess that I don't have any idea what street this is but I can probably figure it out if we walk for a bit. This is my wheel house after all. I think I can be forgiven for the subways in the City, but I have to know the way around Syracuse.  
This is my area. This is my region. This is my home, damn it. We may have landed in a weird church, but Lars actually took me home. He took me home.  
“I vote this way,” I point down the sidewalk. He shakes his head and adjusts the sack over his shoulder.  
“I'm following you, mate.”  
Indeed, I start down the sidewalk with the heels of my boots clomping once again like horse's hooves. I follow the curvature of the street, past a row of tall evergreen shrubs which are apparently lining a patch of black dirt dotted with some trees, towards a crosswalk. Before we reach there, I take a glimpse up to the black sky to find there are no stars. It's cloudy. And I can feel the rain or the snow is upon us.  
Once we're at the corner, I look around to make sure no one's coming. I gaze across the street to find the library with its windows darkened for the night.  
“Let's see—if we're at the library, other things have to be nearby.”  
We cross the street and reach the other side, and keep walking on past the library.  
“I hear cars,” Lars points out.  
“I do, too. I forget where the freeway is in relevance to here—but let's see, there's a park over there and Syracuse has its share of parks, let me tell you.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah. Parks to Syracuse are what roundabouts are to Boston.”  
He bursts out laughing at that, but I'm dead serious about it! We keep walking along past the veteran's park until we reach a four lane road and I know we're at the highway. I take a look around either way and I spot it right up the block from us.  
I hang a right, and Lars and I walk a little bit up towards the little Denny's on the other side of the street from the bank. I can practically taste the fresh coffee as we stride up to the front door. I hold it for him and he steps inside first. Sometimes a guy just wants a cup of coffee at dark thirty.  
We make our way to the counter and he sets down the sack on the floor next to the chair. I have a seat myself.  
Before the waitress can make her way over to us, I turn my head and spot the woman down at the far end. I nudge Lars.  
“Look—” I point out to him. He gazes past me to see her for himself and he gasps.  
“Candace!” he calls out to her.  
She lifts her head from the newspaper she's reading to see us. Her mouth drops open at the sight of us.  
“Oh, hi,” she tells us, slightly taken aback.  
“What're—you doing here?” I ask her.  
“I had to get out of the City for a day or two,” she replies, folding the paper over. “Hang on, I'm coming down there so we don't have to shout across the counter…”


	37. (an evening with candace)

Candace tucks the newspaper underneath her arm and slings her purse over her shoulder, and then she picks up her cup of coffee before she steps over to us. I take the napkin in front of me to wipe off the seat for her. It's the least I can do for a girl who wanted to mess around with me on her kitchen floor.  
She smiles at me as she sets her black canvas purse with little gold and silver cats imprinted on the outside on the counter in front of us.  
“You know, I'm from around here,” I tell her as part of my greeting.  
“That's right! Oswego, right?”  
“Yeah, about an hour north of here.”  
“So you had to get out of the City, you said?” Lars asks her as the waitress strides up to us from behind the counter.  
“I'll have a cup of coffee, please,” I tell her.  
“A cup of black tea for me if you have it,” he adds. She nods at us and returns to the kitchen to fetch two mugs.  
“Yeah, I was getting… cabin fever, if you will.”  
“Have you been to Manhattan lately?” I ask her. “Well, I should correct that since you live near Manhattan, but I'm talking like… Midtown, where Time Square is?”  
“Not recently, no. Why? What's going on up there?”  
“Full fledged neon city,” Lars declares.  
“Painfully bright, too. Like, bright as day, whereas the Bronx and Boston both are stuck in the mid century.”  
“I've seen a little bit of it down by my neighborhood, but wow, really?”  
“It's like—everywhere,” Lars continues as the waitress returns with our white mugs, mine with fresh brewed black coffee and his with clear hot water. She hands him a teabag of black tea and some packets of sugar. I pick up the little silvery carafe of creamer and pour a little bit into the coffee. He picks up a sugar packet with his index finger and his thumb and smacks it around with his index finger on his other hand.  
“Haven't noticed it, no. I have been seeing a lot of drones, though.”  
“Drones,” I repeat aloud in a soft voice; I pick up my mug of coffee and raise it to my lips, “—how 'bout freakishly huge spiders and scorpions of unusual size?”  
“Spiders, yes. Scorpions, no. I have been seeing a lot more ghosts, too. Like down in the subways. There's something going on, for sure.”  
She sips her coffee and I follow suit so as to mirror her. I think about everything she told me and Lars the other night when we first met her. And I can't help but feel a nagging sensation in the pit of my stomach. It could be from the fact I still haven't had a glass of milk to wash all that pastry down from earlier, or from something else, but I'm feeling it for sure. I don't even know how to describe it other than a tugging sensation right there, right in the pit of my stomach.  
“You know, Denmark is a lot like the Bronx in that everything there is all rusty and coated in silver plates,” she pipes up again.  
“Oh, yeah?” Lars asks her.  
“One time, I was walking through the Gentofte neighborhood of Copenhagen and I was amazed by all the cobblestones on the street and all the brass every which where. I think the most modern thing over there was cassette tapes.”  
“Yeah, that was the most modern thing there when I came to the States. It's gotta be jarring to come here after all of that, though.”  
“Well, not necessarily. The last time I came up here, upstate, I was amazed at the similarity. Whereas down in New York City, it was pretty jarring to witness the ghosts down in the subways. But yeah, I have never seen the neon lighting up in Midtown, though. It's interesting because the last time I went that way, I've seen that part of town as almost third world.”  
“Really?” I'm stunned by that.  
“Oh, yeah. The last time I went there—like a couple of weeks ago, right before we met—I walked into a pizza place to get dinner for myself, and where the street was brightly lit with all these sunshiny golden lights—bright as day like you guys said—but the inside of the restaurant was intimately lit with candle and ramshackle, like it was put together with old newspapers and duct tape. I also had to wipe off a table with a napkin. The pizza was good, but that's how it was there.”  
“Like a third world country,” I conclude.  
“A third world country under a veil of neon. I also want to ask you guys—well, Lars, anyways—this. What's in the bag?”  
We take a look down to the burlap sack resting on the raised up part of the floor underneath our feet.  
“Stuff that could prove to be helpful to us,” Lars explains to her. He has to hold off the rest of his explanation to her as the waitress asks us what we would like to eat that evening. I've got French fries on the brain so I ask for the curly kind plus a ham sandwich. Nothing too heavy given all the bread I had eaten today.  
Soon, he pipes again.  
“Like we have a radar detector in here,” he tells her.  
“A radar detector?”  
“Apparently the drones give off a lot of radar,” he explains, “we also have something in here to detect radio waves to complement it.”  
She nibbles on her bottom lip before taking another sip of her coffee. And then she sets the mug down on the little white dish there on the counter.  
“Joey, can I have a word with you alone?” she suggests to me. I turn my head to face Lars.  
“What? He doesn't mind,” I assure her.  
“I really don't,” he chimes in, leaning over the counter with the cup of tea in hand.  
“But I—I really do, though,” she insists.  
“Okay. Uh—can I at least finish my coffee, though? Or is it that urgent?”  
“It's that urgent.”  
“Okay.” I take another sip and then I set the mug down next to Lars. “Guard this and her kitty purse with your life.”  
“Gladly!”  
I stand to my feet and follow Candace towards the hallway with the bathrooms. She sniffles and bows her head as we step through the entrance. She leads me all the way down towards the ladies' room, and we're standing right before the door when she turns to me. She grips onto my shoulders and pushes me against the wall next to the door. I catch a whiff of soapy perfume, and I think it's coming from the tiny crack between the door and the frame. And then I realize it's her perfume and the crack is wafting her smell towards me.  
She leans into my face for a kiss on my lips. She runs her hands up the sides of my neck and into the roots of my hair. I jerk my head back from her face.  
“What're you doing?” I demand to her in a hushed voice.  
“I want a do-over of the other night,” she tells me in a near whisper, “please.”  
I swallow down the nervous feeling welling up inside of my stomach. She drops her hand onto my chest and her other hand pressed on the wall right behind me.  
“I know I'm slow to—you know—”  
“Get off?” I finish for her.  
“Yeah.”  
I swallow again and she eyes my throat. She's looking right at my chin and my Adam's apple. She then lifts her gaze to me.  
“But—I need you, though,” she says in a whisper. “I need you to set me free.”  
“Candace, I've gotta confess to you—” I shift my weight right there right in front of her. “I'm not really all that comfortable here in the hallway back to the bathrooms. And the ladies' room, especially.”  
“Come on—please. I'm begging you.”  
She lowers her gaze to my chest and to my stomach. She's examining my body, all wrapped in black and a heavy coat, from the base of my neck down to my crotch and then my thighs, my knees, and my feet.  
“—so thin and elegant,” she remarks, “—I want you to rock me. Please.”  
“Tell you what,” I begin; I then clear my throat. The gnawing sensation inside of my stomach is really bugging me now. I think it could just be from hunger the more I think about it. “Lars and I'll take you back to my place in Oswego and I'll give you what you're coming for. I really don't want to be here in this hallway.”  
“Why?”  
“Well, for one thing, we're in a public place.”  
“Let them look,” she whispers to me in a husky voice. That sexuality is there: I can feel it. It just needs to be coaxed out even if she can't come right away.  
“I also don't like having my back against a hard wall with a draft blowing on me. If I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come for you, not a breeze.”  
“Okay—” She's giving me a wide eyed, deer in headlights look as she leans in for another light kiss on my lips. In a way, she reminds me of Lupe: she's gentle and soft but underneath that cool demeanor is a kinky girl waiting to give me what I'm coming for. She pulls back and then leads me back to the counter. I run my fingers through my hair before taking my seat next to Lars again as he's taking a sip of his tea.  
We're sitting there in silence until our food arrives, fresh and hot, just how I like it on a dark night like this.  
“What if I told you guys,” Candace finally says with her mouth partially full of mashed potatoes, “that everything Maya has told you has been nothing but a lie.”  
“I think we've pretty much figured out that one,” Lars tells her.  
“Yeah, we kinda know that by now,” I add to that, as I'm bringing a French fry up to my lips.  
“No, but—I think what I'm trying to say is—I've been lying to you guys, too.”  
And I just about gag on it. Not from the fact it's hot, but from that. I lower it from my mouth in order to gape at her.  
“What have you been lying to us about?” Lars demands in a hushed voice.  
“I'll explain later,” she quips back to us.  
“No, no, no, no, no, no,” I say to her; I'm the one in charge here. “The cat's out of the bag. You've gotta tell us.”  
“I've been lying by omission. Something else happened on the night Maya went missing.”  
“Tell us,” Lars insists.  
“Yeah, spill,” I join in.  
She sighs through her nose.  
“Now, I want you guys to understand that I worry about Michael finding out about this because he told me he'd do a number on me if I told anyone about this.”  
“We will protect you,” Lars assures her.  
“The hell we will!” I add to that.  
She sighs through her nose again. And then she unbuttons her coat collar to show off the buttons on her rich blue shirt. She unbuttons those to show off the scar on her chest, right above her left breast. Okay, I'm confused. I've seen those scars when I had my encounter with her on the kitchen floor. What could she be lying about to us?  
“This scar here,” she explains, “Michael gave this to me the night Maya went down to New Orleans.”  
“What does it signify?” Lars asks her. “Like what did he do?”  
“I'll explain it when we're in a private place,” she tells us. “Like, after we're done eating here.”  
I knit my eyebrows at her as she's buttoning up again. Something tells me that there's more to that scar on Maya's forehead, too.


	38. (mother lovin' bones)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The events my death brought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life.”   
> -Susie, The Lovely Bones

After dinner, Candace had taken us outside to her cute little black car with a Yellow Submarine sticker in the back window. Lars had covered for the both of us before we got our check, saying we had taken a bus from Oswego to Syracuse but we had no idea what was the time. Turned out, it was still early: about seven o'clock. But she offered to take us back home given she needed to be away from the City for a while. It was an offer neither of us could refuse so we climbed into the car, myself in the front next to her and Lars right behind me, and headed off to the shores of Lake Ontario.  
The car is warm and dry, and the seats are soft.  
All I can think about is how much I'm going to try to have to get her in touch with herself. She's got her fingers wrapped around the edge of the steering wheel: those knuckles are poking out towards me, and the light from the highway is shining onto her bones. I don't know why I'm feeling an itch to kiss her hands, but I want to.  
I wonder what she could be lying to us about with those scars, like I wonder where they came from. I hope nothing serious.  
But I have it in mind, though. He performed surgery on her. But what kind of surgery? It's got me hung up a bit. And after seeing their house back in Boston, it makes me wonder how he did it much less even do it in the first place.  
I nibble on my bottom lip once the first sign for 'Swaygo enters our view. That tugging sensation in the pit of my stomach has turned into butterflies. I'm nervous. I wonder what she's gonna do. I wonder what she wants me to do. I wonder what I'm gonna do.  
And at one point, I realize that Lars has been dead silent this whole time. He hasn't even asked her what she's lied to us by omission about. Then again—  
I glimpse over my shoulder at the sight of him back there with his feet up on the door handle behind me and his head leaned back into the corner next to the door. He's asleep.  
Okay, I'm really nervous now.  
Lars fell asleep and I'm alone here with a girl who wants me to give her what for when we're back at my place.  
“Okay, so where do you live?” she asks me once I recognize the outskirts of town.  
“A little apartment complex—don't worry, I'll guide you there.”  
I'm almost put on autopilot as I show her the way to my place. I look up to the sky, to the sight of the orange clouds blanketing the sky. It's definitely going to snow, I can say that for sure now. Soon, I spot the complex and she pulls into the driveway. She turns the corner to behold the sight of my car all by its lonesome under the protection of the garage.  
And she takes the spot right next to it.  
“You know, that's my car,” I tell her as she tugs on the parking lever.  
“That's your car?”  
“It's a piece of crap, but yeah. That is definitely my car.”  
She switches it off and I turn my head to the back seat again. I unbuckle my seat belt to better reach him.  
“'Ay—hey, wake up. We're here.”  
He stirs and his eyes pop open to look at me. He then rubs his eyes and lowers his feet from the door handle. Candace climbs out first and I follow suit into the cold moist night. Lars slides out of the back seat and stretches his arms over his head.  
She locks the car and that's my cue to lead them both back to my place. I search for my key in my coat pocket once my door comes within our sight.  
I unlock the door and we step inside of my cold apartment. Lars lingers there in the doorway with her while I round the couch to turn on the light on the other side of the room. Golden light bathes over us and she gasps.  
“My goodness,” she scoffs at me; Lars shuts the door behind them and strips off his coat.  
“Yeah, I know,” I assure her. “I live alone but—this is home to me.”  
“No, I mean, there should be a lamp here next to the door. You know, so you don't have to walk all the way over there to turn on the light.”  
“Uh—that, too. Would you like something to drink?”  
“Just some water. Unless you have something else.”  
“Joey doesn't drink,” Lars tells her as he offers to take her coat and her purse.  
“Oh! Well, more power to you, Joey.”  
I pass them and head into the kitchen for a clean glass and some fresh water for my guest and our chauffeur. We still have yet to figure out the secret behind those scars on her body.  
Both she and Lars are silent as I return to the front room with the glass in hand. They've taken their seat on my couch; I round the side of the couch and hand her the glass with both hands.  
“Oh, thank you, Joey.”  
“So what do you think we should do now?” Lars asks both me and her.  
“Well, there's four hours left in the year,” she points out. “Let's make the most of it.”  
He yawns as she takes a drink. I'm standing there with my arms down by my sides and I want to do something with them.  
Lars looks beat, like he's about ready to fall asleep again.  
“Happy birthday Scott,” he says aloud.  
“Oh, yeah, that's right!” I recall. “Today was Scott's birthday… I hope he had a good day.”  
Lars rubs his eyes and groans in his throat.  
“The two of you don't mind if I fall asleep here, do you?” he asks us: he's weary, I can tell.  
“Not at all,” Candace assures him.  
“Nah, man,” I join in. “If you're tired, you're tired. Go right to sleep.”  
He yawns again and Candace stands to her feet so he can stretch out his legs. Once he's got his boots off, he does just that and yawns again. He rests his head against the arm of the couch, and I fetch the blanket for him again, and I lay it over his body.  
“Bitch slap me if something happens,” he tells us, snuggling down in the couch cushion.  
“Of course, of course.”  
He rolls his head over on the arm and closes his eyes. I turn to Candace as she's sipping her water.  
And then I gesture for her to follow me into my room.  
I lead her in there, towards my nightstand. I turn on the light for her to see me.  
I turn when she downs the rest of her water.  
“So what're we gonna do?” she asks me in a soft tone. “Like how are we gonna do this?”  
I sigh through my nose and put my arms around her.  
“Are we gonna do this now?” she demands in a hushed voice.  
“Just shut up—” I command her, holding onto the back of her head. “—shut up and—kiss me—”  
She raises her mouth towards me for a kiss on the lips. Or maybe I'm doing it first. I don't know. What matters is we're smooching each other and I'm guiding her down to the edge of my bed. I lay her down on her back, across the width of her bed, and I strip off my shirt. She swallows as I lower myself down over her.  
“It's alright,” I assure her. “We'll go slow. I promise.”  
I kiss her on the lips again once, twice, three times: on the fourth time, I bring myself closer to her. I've got my right knee next to her hip and I've got both hands over her shoulders. My face is right there right above hers. She's nervous, I can tell. But she wants me to do this.  
“How you feeling right now?” I ask her.  
“I need this,” she whispers to me. It's in there: I have to coax it out of her.  
“Here—I'll let you do what you want.”  
I lay down next to her, right on my back. She lifts herself over me and gazes into my eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip as she caresses my chest. I can see her eyeing my stomach and my hips. It's driving me nuts. But I have to be patient with her. I'm the one leading her into this.  
She's right over my left hip. I push the waist band down so as to expose my hip bone.  
“Kiss me,” I command her. “Have at it.”  
“There?”  
“Yes, kiss me—” I coax her. “Right there—please. God, please. Kiss me—right there. And then do whatever it is that you feel like.”  
I relax at the feel of her lips. Such a light delicate touch and one that I hope can get things moving for her.  
“So tell me,” I start, closing my eyes and feeling her touch me around some more of my hip and onto the lower side of my belly. “Where'd you get that scar you were—showing to me and Lars earlier?”  
“You really want to know?” she asks me in between light kisses.  
“Please. It's alright—it's just you and me here. I promise to you.”  
“Okay—” She gives me another light kiss right on the bone and then she unzips my jeans. I can feel her poking around and I want to lift my head for a look but this is all about her at the moment.  
“If you must pry, Michael inserted a—a chip of sorts into me.”  
“A chip? What do you mean?”  
“A cybernetic chip. He told me it was to keep tabs on me so I don't run away like Maya did.”  
What the fuck.  
“He stuck it there right in my chest—because he told me that's where I'm the most vulnerable. But—” I feel her fondling me. “—I took it right out. I don't want that—that—that shit—”  
She groans in her throat. I close my eyes when I feel her lips on my head. She's got me.  
Yeah. Yeah, she's got me alright!  
“I don't want that shit in my body,” she whispers to me in a single breath.  
“Under—Understandable,” I assure her. Her lips are soft and I know her mouth can go deeper, but this is unknown territory for me. It was one thing with Lupe, and it was one thing with Dominique. But she's got me with the mouth, and she's got another hand on my hipbone, fondling me down right there while getting me not even two inches from there. For some reason, feeling her touch my hip bone makes me think of that other band we saw in Seattle. Mother Love Bone, they were called. This girl is giving my bones some love.  
I feel her tongue running down the side.  
Oh, yeah, that's good.  
She then gasps and gags on something. She chokes and lifts her head from me. She coughs and I raise my head for a look at her. Panting as if she had been running, she stares at me.  
“Was that good?” she asks me, lunging herself onto the bed next to me.  
“Yes! What'd you choke on?”  
“I tried to go deeper, but I couldn't.” She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “I'm so sorry.”  
“No, no, no, no, no, it's okay. I like it when you touch my hip—”  
“You're so skinny—it's like caressing bones.”  
“It's delicate, though. Like being tickled.” I then frown at her. “So he put a chip in you and tried to follow that way? Jesus.”  
“Yeah.” Her face falls at the sight of my chest and my upper arms.  
“You have to believe me,” she whispers to me.  
“I do,” I assure her. But the truth is I really don't know what to believe at the moment after the fact she explicitly said she lied to us. For all I know, that scar could be from something else. But I don't know if she wants to continue.


	39. (the secret)

“Joey—I have to tell you,” Candace whispers to me, shifting her weight.  
“What's up?” I lift my head for a better look at her as she's standing to her feet.  
“I'm not all that comfortable laying sideways like this.” She gestures to me as I'm putting my dick back into my pants.  
“Okay. Yeah, that would make it easier on me, too.” Once I've got myself back into my pants, I swing my legs over towards the end of the bed and lay there with my legs stretched out and my head on the pillow. “Here—I've got it. I've got it—okay.” Once I'm comfortable, I turn to look at her standing next to the bed with a worried look in her eye. “Okay? Wanna lay with me?” I gesture for her to join me.  
“I don't know—” She shakes her head as she eyes my body and my still unfastened jeans, still opened up to expose my hip bones.  
“Well, tell me then.” I want to laugh but I also can't. “How do you feel?”  
“I don't know…”  
“What do you mean, you don't know? Surely, you know.”  
“I'm afraid I don't,” she insists.  
“Well, here—” I scoot over for her to have a seat next to me on the bed. She's reluctant, but she does with her right knee raised up so I can see the crotch of her panties. I run my fingers over her right thigh and around to the back.  
“How's this?” I ask her. She swallows.  
“Um…”  
“I'm touching your thigh, Candace. How does it feel?”  
“Like—you're trying to tickle me.”  
“Yes, but how does it feel?” I pause to help her dig into herself. “How does it make you feel?”  
“Like you're… trying to tickle me?”  
I run my tongue along my bottom lip as I take a look at her panties. “Okay. How 'bout this…”  
I reach for that thin layer of fabric and slip the tips of my fingers in there but she recoils, jerking her right leg away from me.  
“What're you do—no.”  
“No?”  
“No.” She shakes her head. “I don't want that.”  
“You don't want that?”  
“No,” she insists.  
“Never met a girl who didn't like getting fingered.”  
“It—It makes me uncomfortable.”  
“I can do my tongue if you'd like, even though I'm not too crazy about that.”  
“No. No! God, please, no.” She closes her eyes. “I don't want to be touched—down there. I know, I know… ridiculous, especially since I tried to come onto you.”  
“No, it's not ridiculous. It's just a matter of—getting down and cutting loose, like what I did a little bit ago.”  
“And the fact I came onto you means I can't do it.” A break emerges in her voice. I shake my head.  
“What the hell did that man do to you,” I wonder aloud in a near whisper.  
“Too much. Way too much to enjoy my body and another human being.”  
I clear my throat and put my hands behind my head so she can better see my chest and the whole upper half of my body better.  
“So tell me more about the chip he put into you, if you don't mind,” I being again. “We can delve deeper that way.”  
She sniffles and then fetches up a sigh. “Well,” she reluctantly begins, “—I don't really remember much of what told me because I was mostly under the influence of anesthesia. But I do remember feeling it inside of my chest, like he did a shoddy job of putting it inside of me, like part of it was sticking out. So—when he wasn't looking, I just plucked it out.”  
“Just... took it out?” That makes my stomach turn a bit. Gross.  
“Like popping a pimple. I remember holding it in my fingers while I was bleeding. It wasn't like I was holding bare metal—it was silicone, like a fake breast implant, but it had all these little wires inside of it and he called them 'nano bites'. He told me I needed it first.”  
“You needed it first?” I raise an eyebrow at that.  
“Yeah. Because I'm the oldest.”  
“So he performed surgery on you and put it—there? Right on your chest?” I gesture to my own chest.  
“It's where I'm most vulnerable, like I said,” she reiterates. “Michael told me he performs surgery like that on the most vulnerable part of someone. For me, it's the chest. He said he was going to perform it in front of Maya, too, make her watch.”  
“Oh, my God!” Okay, I'm really disgusted now. “Explains the distraction of her running away.”  
“We can hope that. I only knew she ran off because she wanted to direct attention away from me.”  
I open my mouth to say something, but I stop instead. “Wait a minute.”  
“What?”  
I nibble on my bottom lip. Might be a jump to conclusions but if he made Maya watch, then that should mean she didn't run away to divert attention away from Candace.  
“You weren't the abused one,” I tell her in a hushed voice. And she gasps as if I just insulted her mother.  
“—what?” she stammers out. “I most certainly was!” She brings a hand to her chest.  
“No.” I hoist myself onto my elbows. “Maya didn't run away to get away from the abuse onto you. She ran away to get away from the abuse onto her.”  
“Well, yeah,” she says in a sarcastic tone, like I'm stating the obvious; she even rolls her eyes at me; “she and I were both abused. But like I said, I took the worst of it.”  
“No, you didn't,” I assure her, lifting myself into a seating position next to her. “Because if you did, I never would've found her. Hang tight, I've gotta talk to Lars…”


	40. (the accusation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Skrying through reflections in a pool,  
> I see death coming, mowing down.  
> Do you remember the bedroom?  
> Was it your cell or was it your tomb?”  
> -”Skrying”, Mudvayne

I still have my jeans clinging onto my hips as I'm making my way into the front room. Lars is sound asleep on the couch, snuggled underneath the blanket. I have to come back in here anyway to turn off the light, but I need to tell him something first.  
I hover over him with my hand on his chest.  
“'Ay—hey, wake up!” I encourage him. He shakes awake and stares at me, disoriented.  
“What? What is it?” he asks me: I guess he had just fallen asleep.  
“Candace wasn't the abused one—Maya was.”  
“What!” He gapes at me as he scrambles himself into an upright position.  
“It's not true!” Candace calls from the next room. She hurries in with her shirt on over her body. “It's not true! I was the abused one and I was often protecting her!”  
“Then why did I find her?” I demand to her, careful not to raise my voice given it's getting late. “Why did I find her in a storm drain bound at the ankles? Why does she have a scar on her forehead then, Candace?”  
“Yeah, tell us!” Lars joins in, turning his head and clutching onto the top of the couch.  
“You found her because she's a runaway!” she declares, exasperated. “She diverted the attention away from me.”  
“Then why did you stay in that damn house?” I ask, pressing my hands to my hips. “Why did you even stay there after she ran away?”  
“Because she's my step sister!” She's terse now, but then she backs off a bit to look at me, all fuming. “I needed to stay behind for her.”  
“For her?” Lars raises his eyebrows at her. “Knowing her, she would've made it just fine, Candace.”  
“She knows the streets,” I add to that. “She's not a street walker—I know street walkers, I've been with them. But no. You put yourself on the line because you wanted to save her from what was going on there at that damn house.”  
“Wait a minute,” Lars stops me with his free hand. He raises himself onto his knees so he's leaning against the back of the couch. “Of course. It makes sense now!” He then turns to her. “You stayed behind instead saving yourself because you think she can't help herself.”  
“That is nonsense!” she exclaims. “I know for a fact she can help herself, otherwise she wouldn't have run away in the first place!”  
“She ran away to get away from him!” I insist. “Jesus Christ Almighty, do I need to spell it out for you?”  
“Do I need to spell out the fact that that's not what happened to you?” she argues. “She likes to make diversions, and that was one of them!”  
“Then why was she looking for you?” I ask her, inching closer to her. “Why was she looking for me?”  
“She was looking for you?”  
“Yes!”  
“Yes,” Lars echoes. “After our friend Sonia took her to the hospital in Syracuse to get her checked out, she said she wanted to see Joey again. She was looking for her source of comfort because she knows her sister is unreliable.”  
“Yeah, she rolled out of the car at sixty miles an hour on the freeway, too,” I add to that.  
“Yeah, she could've killed herself, Candace,” he points out. “You could've lost your sister because you're a damn fool.”  
“And with that,” I conclude, zipping up my pants, “I'm not gonna help you in any fucking way unless you can save yourself first.”  
“Yeah, me, too,” he says. “Don't you dare play with either of us.”  
“Listen to me, both of you,” she begins in a curt tone. She nibbles on her bottom lip as she eyes the both of us. She's frustrated, I can tell. “Neither of those conclusions are correct. I took the brunt of all the abuse. And if she rolled out of the car on the way to the hospital, it wasn't because she wanted to see you again, Joey.”  
“Then—” I start laughing. “Why did she even do that?” I fold my arms over my bare chest. I look over at Lars, who's resting his forearm against the top of the couch like he's at a bar.  
“Yeah, why even put herself on the line like that?” he adds, chuckling with me. No offense, Candace, but you can't hide from us.  
“It has to do with all of the cybernetic stuff going on,” she continues. “There was a reason why she didn't want to go down to Syracuse to the hospital there and it has to do with someone you know, Joey.”  
I stop laughing and hang there in silence.  
“Brick?”  
“Your friend Brick?” Lars takes a concerned glimpse at me.  
“She probably wanted to get back to you to warn you of what was about to go on down there,” she proceeds, calming down. “You guys have been to New York City, to the heart of Manhattan, and to the subways. You've seen the neon and the machines.”  
“We've been to your house, too,” Lars adds, leaning back from the couch.  
“So you've seen what's going on there,” she adds.  
“Well, just—a little bit,” I correct her. “I've been on the inside of the house but he hasn't.”  
“So you've seen the front that Michael likes to put up,” she says, giving her hair a gentle flip back. “Don't be fooled. He abused me and Maya both, and if she's there right now, it's because I'm out of the picture. I stayed behind to make sure she made it home alright and then once she came home from New Orleans, I left for Copenhagen. I could go into more but it's getting late and it's a four hour drive back to Manhattan.”  
“No, no, no!” I insist. “I take it all back. I mean it. I swear—I take that all back, I swear. I swear on my grandparents' ashes. It's my fault. It's all my fault. Blame me for the misunderstanding back there until the day I drop dead, but please tell us more.”  
“Yeah, tell us more!” Lars joins in. “Please! Behage!”  
“No,” she states, raising her finger to both of us. “As far as I'm concerned, the two of you are on your own. I've given you a little taste. You've got the tools, both in the burlap sack and inside of your skulls and in between your legs. You're both big boys—you can do it.” She strides over to the door to fetch her coat and her purse: she puts the latter over her shoulder first followed by her coat.  
“But you've been helping us so well as of late!” Lars declares, sounding worried.  
“And you've been kind enough to even so much as let us into your apartment!” I add to that.  
“And not for nothing, you can't just leave us here!” he declares to her. “On New Year's Eve no less!”  
“Sorry, guys—I have to go.” And with not another word, she wheels around and heads out the door back to the darkness. She's careful to shut the door behind her, leaving us there in stunned silence. I turn to Lars as he's bowing his head over the top of the couch.  
“Well, I feel like a complete idiot now,” I say aloud, pressing my hands back onto my hips.  
“Well, in your defense, Joey, there have just been so many holes in this whole thing,” he points out. “A lot has happened and so it's only natural to string things together at some point. You just connected the dots and you wound up connecting them wrong. But let that be a lesson to you, though. Don't fuck around with pain.”  
“Never. And I feel bad for waking you like that, too.”  
“I was barely asleep. I was about to get up and ask you if you have anything to eat.”  
“How can you eat at a time like this?”  
“I'm like you. I have a bottomless pit for a stomach.”  
“Yeah, I've got some pretzels if you want. And it is New Year's Eve after all.”  
“It is New Year's Eve.” He slides off the couch onto the floor and I step forward to let him through. But I keep going back to my bedroom to fetch my shirt and have a moment alone. I can't believe I did that. I feel terrible now.  
I fetch up a sigh as I pick up my shirt from the floor and put it back on. I shake my head as I gaze on at my bed. To think she was actually willing to help herself, and I pulled that on her. I close my eyes and bow my head. Where’s Nerissa, she’d probably soothe over the things going through my head at the moment, even if it’s just for the time being.  
“Kill me,” I mutter to myself, burying my face in my hands. “Kill me now. Kill me right the fuck now.”


End file.
